A Merciless Affection
by Verity Brown
Summary: Canonshafted by HBP, but still very IC. When a N.E.W.T. Potions field trip goes badly wrong, a chain of events is set in motion that may cost Snape more than his life, and a student more than her heart. Angst/dark romance. SS/OC of-age student.
1. Prologue: Sculpted Angels

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I have no delusions that I own the Harry Potter-verse. I'm just playing with the word-toys, like everyone else.

**Story Summary:** When a N.E.W.T. Potions field trip goes badly wrong, all's well that ends well, right? Not quite. A chain of events is set in motion that may cost Snape more than his life, and a student more than her heart. Angst/angsty romance. SS/OC (of-age student). Set during OotP. Mature theme and some sex, so an R rating.

**A/N:** While I was forming the idea for this story, I happened to read an interview with JKR, in which she said, "Who on earth would want Snape in love with them? That's a very horrible idea." I admit that I'm right there with the rest of you saying "Me! Me!" But in this story I also tried to consider whether perhaps JKR has a point.

**Warnings:** If you dislike the idea of Snape bonking a student, even one that's over the age of consent, please read no further, for your sake and mine. Neither of us needs the grief. Everyone else, please read on (and, I hope, enjoy)!

**Many Thanks:** to cecelle, a great fellow-author here on ff net for beta-ing and helping me invent the missing plot point for the prologue, and to my best friend, Swtbrier, for lots of ideas and proofreading _everything!_

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**Prologue: Passing Bells and Sculpted Angels, Cold and Monumental**

There must be better ways to spend Halloween night, Professor Severus Snape thought, but it could have been worse. If there had been a Halloween Ball, he would have been stuck chasing randy students out of the bushes all evening. If October 31st had not become such a definite non-holiday in the Dark Lord's calendar, he might be spending the night walking on reptilian eggshells, doing whatever it took to keep his dark master's confidence. So on the whole, escorting a handful of his N.E.W.T. students on an ingredients-gathering field trip was relatively painless.

They were even mostly Slytherins. There were only three different plants to be collected for this particular assignment on the preparation of rare local non-cultivables, so he'd had to fill out this group—the only one, thankfully, that he had to escort personally—with whoever was left when the more troublesome students were sorted into the other two groups. A couple of Ravenclaws, Edwin Dory and Valancy Sterling, and that Darkglass girl from Gryffindor...what was her name? Sarah? Rather contrary to type, for a Gryffindor to be left on the list that way, but since he couldn't readily think of an incident where she had drawn attention to herself... A reasonable group, altogether, and Professor Sprout could sod off if she dared to suggest that he was encroaching on her subject.

There was a patch of autumnal icecrop at the east end of the graveyard fence on the far side of Hogsmeade. But it had to be harvested at night, since exposure to sunlight rendered its thick sap useless. Hence, the field trip. Even seventh years could not be sent to wander around this part of Hogsmeade unsupervised in the dark.

Small disks of light from the bull's-eye lanterns danced along the frosty stones at the base of the fence. It was cold out, and with the stars glowing clear above, it promised to be colder yet before they got back to the castle.

"Is this it?" Dirk Nightshade kicked a bit of silverweed with the toe of his boot.

"No, you idiot, it's over here." Harriet Bulstrode bent down and snapped off a stem. "This _is_ it, isn't it, Professor?"

"Correct," he answered. "However, the sap will be more productive if it's _cut_, rather than broken." Even the class's top student had clearly not read the material carefully enough. Snape grimaced when he looked down and saw that the Darkglass girl was already quietly trimming bits of icecrop into a phial. "Well, let's not be all night at it," he chided the group.

After a few busy minutes, only the slowest were not stamping about with chattering teeth and phials of icecrop tucked inside their robes. As the last student stood up, one of the Slytherin reserve Chasers, Guy Mugwort exclaimed, "Hey, let's walk back through the graveyard. Come on," he added, when the idea was not met with instant eagerness, "it's Halloween. Gotta have _some_ fun. Can we, Professor Snape?"

Snape acquiesced. They were still young enough to appreciate such a cheap thrill. Mugwort found a side gate, and took the lead on a winding path among the headstones.

"Shhh," the young man turned and hissed to the merry troupe behind him. "It's scarier if we're quiet. And close up the lamps."

The group spread out in the dim light of the setting quarter moon, silent except for the occasional attempt at a spooky noise and the muffled squeals that followed. Snape brought up the rear, ignoring the few students who had hung toward the back with him, letting his thoughts slide over hot tea and a warm fire to the potions he had in progress that would need tending when he got back. It took him a moment to realize that the quarrelling he heard up ahead was not his students, who were, in fact, clustering silently together again, just short of the far side of the graveyard. The caretaker's hut straddled the fence near the main gate, its windows red with light.

"There's not much I _can_ do, now is there?" said an old man's voice, carrying far in the chill darkness.

"There's always _something_ can be done," a younger, oilier voice answered. "If you're still _loyal_, that is."

"Have sense, man! I'm smack under Dumbledore's nose up here. It's not like Knockturn Alley. Things is _noticed_."

"Oh, yes, I see. Smack under Dumbledore's nose is a good place to hide for someone who's gone over, O'Malley."

Snape felt the back of his neck prickling as the icy air found a way under his collar and down his spine. He knew the old man, O'Malley, who was apparently now the caretaker here, but he couldn't put a name to the other voice, although he could guess what, if not who, it belonged to. The last few words pierced him with a sudden, nasty suspicion that they might be talking about _him_.

A girl's whisper beside him almost made him jump out of his skin. "Professor?"

Snape hissed a warning to be silent. He and the stragglers were drawing close to the hut. A few of the boys had crept right up under the windowsill. Fools! He motioned for them to come away, but either they weren't looking or they couldn't see him out here in the dark.

"A man's got to retire quiet-like sometime," O'Malley was protesting. "Can't help what I settled on. None of us knew for certain, did we, that he wasn't really done for? Paper's convinced the boy's story was a lot of codswallop."

"Codswallop, is it? You'd be just as happy if it were, I'm beginning to see." There was something almost familiar about the voice, in the accent at least. But even if he couldn't place the man, Snape knew all about these little "convincing sessions" for former supporters. It should have made him feel better that it was only that, rather than an inside plot against a Death Eater whose loyalty was in question. It didn't. This was still a very dangerous situation to be overhearing. The voice went on, "Have it your way, then, old man. But the Dark Lord will remember who stood up for him and who didn't. Keep that in mind. Matter of fact, I'll make _sure_ you do." There was a harsh whisper of "_Crucio!_" and a muffled scream.

More than one scream. One of his own lily-livered girls had shrieked. Nightshade's girlfriend, Olive Barnley, stood exposed in the light from the windows, with her hands clapped to her mouth.

"_Ho, who's there!_" A dark shape came to the doorway of the hut, blocking out some of the light.

Without knowing the interrogator, who was at least an initiate, if not a full-fledged Death Eater, Snape couldn't be sure whether the fate of the eavesdroppers would stop with a mere memory charm. And if he wasn't known to the other man, that meant the only chance he might have to put a stop to this without a fight was one that he couldn't resort to in front of his students: unless he showed the Dark Mark, he was as much in danger as anyone else.

Whipping out his wand, he fired off a disarming spell. Not at all sure he had hit his target, he shouted, "_Run!_"

For one terrible moment, it was as if they hadn't heard him. He understood why, when the mad dash finally began. No one knew which way to run. Some took off back through the graveyard, while the ones that had been hiding against the house made for the main gate. There was a pop; someone had Apparated. And one of the girls was standing stock still, as if transfixed. He swept an arm around her, trying to propel her back toward the headstones, his free hand closing unexpectedly around the outstretched fist in which she held her wand. _Foolish child!_ But whatever she had been about to try to do, it was too late.

"_Immobili omnia!_"

_Damn! _The spell hit Snape and the girl first. It didn't stop there, though. Through the full arc of the Death Eater's wand gesture, students halted, some falling painfully inert to the ground when the spell's effects on their locomotor muscles caught them off balance. Another swoop, and the boys heading for the road were brought up short. There were several moans and an assortment of wailing.

A shadowed shape moved forward and bent down, then a beam of light cut the dark as the man unshielded the side of a discarded lantern. "Well, well, well," the oily voice said. "Who have we here?" He trained the beam on one of the fallen boys.

"We won't tell!" the boy whimpered. "We're _Slytherins!_"

The disc of light fell on the green and silver badge. "Oh, won't you?" The man chuckled nastily. "Some of you brainy sprogs are loyal, eh?"

"Yes, oh yes," the boy agreed.

The Death Eater began working his way around to the rest of his captives. Snape tried to shake off the effects of the curse, at least enough to move his wand hand; this was not how he planned things to end. But his left hand had been frozen awkwardly against the girl's arm, his wand pointing vaguely in the direction of her head, while the right was still clenched around her fist, and the only result of his efforts was a slight tightening of his fingers. He winced as the beam of light hit him in the eyes.

"Fancy that. If isn't the _teacher_." The man spat the word as if it were an insult. And suddenly, as the shadowed features flashed in and out of blindness, briefly distinguishable, he recognized the voice. It had been a long way from the gangs of boys in Knockturn Alley. "Ain't you just the toff now?" The sarcasm was cutting.

"Connor..." He had come to a final and unpleasant parting of the ways with the younger boy over a year before he had cast in his own lot with the Dark Lord. It was a little surprising that they hadn't come into contact on business before now, though not at all surprising that Isaac Connor had taken, or wanted to take, the Dark Mark. But there was no reason to suppose that the man knew—or would want to believe, for that matter—anything beyond the street gossip, which hadn't been entirely kind to Snape's bad reputation.

"Thought you were on our side, once, Snape, even if you and me were quits. Guess that posh position was just too tempting for a clever bighead like you, eh? Especially with the great Dumbledore there to cover your narking arse."

"Don't make a mistake, Connor," Snape warned. "You don't know everything."

Connor snorted. "Just the same as always, eh? I'm not the one who's made a mistake, bringing sprogs out here to snoop." The light played down across the girl—damn it, it was Sarah Darkglass—and came to rest on the Gryffindor badge. "So, not all Slytherins."

"None of them will say anything. I have _my own interests_ in seeing to that." He stared hard at Connor, willing him pick up on the subtlety of that phrase. And where were the Ravenclaws? The earlier pop might have been one Apparating away. But Connor had looked at all of them, and even though he hadn't come to Hogwarts himself, surely the differences between a Slytherin badge and a Ravenclaw one would be apparent to anyone.

"Yes, it would be too bad if anyone knew you'd brung your students out to meet with one of the Dark Lord's servants, wouldn't it?" Connor sneered. "Worse still if things went wrong, and they got...killed."

An assortment of shrieks and pleas went up at that comment. Not, oddly, from the girl, who would almost certainly be the first to die. But with her locked as closely against him as if they were dancing some ancient figure dance, he could feel her heart pounding as rapidly as his own.

"It would hardly be wise to risk killing children of the Dark Lord's supporters," Snape said, hoping that Connor had just given him a way to gain the upper hand in talking him around. "And we aren't quite so isolated out here that you could perform a killing curse that many times without attracting attention. There are other ways of dealing with this little...situation." Now, if only Connor _did_ know a memory charm.

The other man twiddled his wand between his fingers, seeming to consider. "I do believe you're right, Snape," he said finally. "I don't have to kill them all, do I? No, I think it would be more interesting if I only killed _one_."

Connor tucked his own wand away, then, to Snape's horror, reached out and began prying his fingers apart.

"Damn you, Connor, what do you think you're doing!" After the brief and useless struggle, Snape wasn't sure whether a couple of his fingers weren't broken. And his wand was in Connor's hand.

"Just a spot of revenge into the bargain, old boy. She dies," he pointed the wand menacingly at the Gryffindor girl, "the rest...shall we say _forget_ about me. And you get back your rather incriminating wand."

Snape's breathing quickened. _Could he slide his fingersup over the girl's wand?_ Stark fear added to the force of will, and his palm was slipping over her knuckles. Either her fingers were damp with sweat or his own were. But it was still too slowly...

Connor was laughing. "Tut, tut, what will Dumbledore say?" he mocked.

Without warning, there was a flash on top of a shout. "_Expelliarmus!_" Snape's wand went flying out of Connor's hand. Then, following as quick as thought, "_Finite incantatem!_"

Snape, unexpectedly able to move, found Sarah's wand in his grasp. It felt a little awkward in the wrong hand, but he couldn't waste time shifting it. Connor was reaching for his own wand. "_Expelliarmus!_"

Whether it was because Connor hadn't managed to draw his wand yet, or because another person's wand in Snape's off hand was enough to foul up the spell, Connor staggered backward a step, but came up with his wand in hand.

Snape swept Sarah behind him, grimacing as his damaged fingers protested. Another spell went flying at Connor from somewhere among the headstones. "_Vertiginus!_"

Connor's nasty chuckle turned into a yelp as he began spinning around and around, the lantern light dancing in sickening circles. Two disarming spells hit the Death Eater at once, one from Snape, the other from out in the dark. His wand flew up in an arc and landed on the dead, frosty grass. The lantern went flying as well; if Connor had intended it as a missile, it failed to hit any possible targets, tumbling across the ground, coming to rest with the beam pointing across the ground toward the graveyard, where the face and wand of a young man peeked out from behind a broad headstone. One of the missing Ravenclaws.

With a flick of Sarah's wand, Snape sent binding cords around Connor, and didn't stop the man from falling with a nasty thud as the earlier spell continued to try turning him about. But what now? It was one thing to defend himself and his students from a mistaken attack, quite another to explain to the Dark Lord that he had willingly turned a fellow Death Eater over to the Aurors. On the other hand, there seemed no safe or reasonable way to let Connor escape. Not all of his Slytherins were supportive of the Dark Lord's cause, although allegiances were seldom admitted to openly, even inside the House, since the price of betrayal was potentially so high. And two students here, at least, would not be afraid to question his motives.

"Give me my wand," he ordered Dory. The youth handed it over with frown. _Expecting a thank you, probably._ _Damn, that finger is definitely broken_. "Where is Miss Sterling?"

"I think she Apparated away," Dory said. "She probably went for help."

_Perfect_. Buying time, Snape stepped over to pick up the lantern, then realized that he still had Sarah's wand in his right hand. _Since when do you think of her as **Sarah**?_ He turned and saw her standing there, wide-eyed, hands clenched together. _Hoping to get her wand back?_

"What did you think you were doing?" he snapped at her.

"I don't know, sir," she said, her voice shaky. It was almost as if he could still feel the beating of her heart. "Something had to be done."

"And naturally a Gryffindor is the only one who can do it?" he sneered.

"I didn't think of it that way, no."

Bad enough to be rescued by a Ravenclaw. Without Miss Darkglass's wand to hand, that humiliation would have been complete.

"You'll have your wand back later," he said, tucking it away. "Take the lantern, and open it all the way."

She came and took it, the glow of unshielded light as she held it up bringing glints of brown to her hair and hazel to her eyes.

"Shall I assist you, sir?" Dory asked.

"I can manage quite well, Mr. Dory."

He stalked over to the first cluster of still-immobilized students and dispelled the curse that was holding them, setting his teeth against the pain in his hand. Damned if he'd let anyone else unfreeze his Slytherins.

A double pop heralded the arrival of the expected "help." Miss Sterling had brought back her own Head, Professor Flitwick.

"Oh, my," the diminutive wizard said, taking in the bound, prone figure, then the statue-like forms of Snape's students.

"Everything is under control now," Snape said tautly. Although Flitwick's presence did provide the excuse he needed not to act in Connor's favor.

"Then I suppose I had better let the headmaster know what has happened."

_Damn. Think fast_. "I'll send one of the students, Filius. We can't be sure this attacker was alone. You, Nightshade," he pointed to a boy he had just freed. "I assume you can Apparate."

"Yes, Professor."

"Then Apparate up to the gates. Find the headmaster or Professor McGonagall and tell them what occurred."

The youth popped out.

"Shall I help free them?" Flitwick asked.

It was horribly tempting offer, under the circumstances. "Just stand guard, if you would," he replied, not managing much grace in the request.

"Sev'rus?" came a querulous voice from the direction of the hut. Snape whirled around. It was the old man, O'Malley. "Is that you?"

"Go back inside," Snape whispered tautly, hastening to the steps of the hut, where O'Malley clung to the railing. "Pretend that none of this ever happened."

"But they'll know he was here to see me!" The old man never used to sound desperate like that. Time was that he had sharpened his tongue on every truant in Knockturn Alley who dared to try to sneak a peek into his warehouse.

"Sh! You don't think he'll talk, do you? He has far more to lose than you do."

"I just want a little peace, that's all."

"Then go inside and forget about it!" Snape turned his back on the old man, striding off to the next group of students. But he was wondering uneasily just what would happen. Under ordinary circumstances, Connor would get a perfunctory trial before being sent to Azkaban. But with the Ministry of Magic at odds with Dumbledore and desperate to silence anything that might alarm the wizarding community, the discovery of one of the Dark Lord's servants almost within sight of Hogwarts would not suit Cornelius Fudge in the least. Especially if the matter was brought to his attention by Dumbledore himself. With enough convincing lies, Connor might walk free.

Perhaps if the Aurors in the Order could arrange to find Connor _elsewhere_... It was, to be sure, giving up valuable ammunition against Fudge's insistence that the school was under no threat from the Dark Lord's supporters, but it was much more likely that the matter would be dealt with instead of being hushed up. He would have to suggest that solution to the headmaster later.

"Bring the light, Miss Darkglass," he ordered.

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**A/N:** I hope you enjoy the student names; I had fun with them. Edwin Dory was meant to sound like Edward Gory. Dirk Nightshade is a nod to both Dirk Blackpool (if anyone remembers that old TV series _Wizards and Warriors _- shows how old I am :P) and Jim Nightshade in Ray Bradbury's _Something Wicked This Way Comes_. There's also nod to Tolkien in the next chapter; see if you can find it. And ten points to the House of anyone who can identify the origin of a character in the prologue whose name was lifted unaltered from another of my favorite books. 


	2. Ch 1: What a Change

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. The money isn't mine either, so don't sue me.

**A/N:** Ten points to...what house are you in ElfinPuss? Thanks for reading!

**

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Chapter 1: What a Change! You're Really Not a Bit the Gawkish Girl That Once You Were **

No one was even _hinting_ anything about Halloween night, let alone talking about it, Sarah Darkglass noticed. Whether it was the chat that each one of them had had with Professor Dumbledore, or Snape's threat of detention until graduation, everyone seemed to be pretending that it had never happened.

Sarah, however, was finding it difficult.

At first she thought it was just that...well, something as traumatic as being threatened with death would naturally addle a person's wits. And Halloween had, admittedly, been pretty frightening. But the fact that her central recollection of the event was a strong hand wrapped around her own, the subtle pressure of arms shadowing hers, a warm breath on the top of her head...that was just one of those quirks of memory. _Strange_ quirks, for a strange event. She hadn't really expected to live through it. It wouldn't take a very strange twist of fate for a Death Eater to be the one to kill Malcolm Darkglass's daughter.

So for the rest of the week she put down her tendency to glance over at Professor Snape at odd moments—as if she needed to make sure he was the same person as he had always been—to the effects of trauma. It wasn't as if he had changed at all. Indeed, anyone would think that life-threatening adventures were a matter of course for him, when he came in and taught Potions the next day without a flicker of difference from his usual brusque style. Maybe that was why she kept looking. Maybe because she couldn't believe it. Maybe because that sort of experience ought to leave _some_ kind of mark, and if she squinted just so and tilted her head the right way when she looked at him, it would come clear and she could be sure that her memories of Halloween night weren't just some figment of her imagination.

It wasn't until Saturday, during the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, that it occurred to her that she was really looking at him far more than she could reasonably explain away. Not that she was all that mad for Quidditch. Living in the same dorm room for seven years with three raving Quidditch fans, who had only gotten worse since being picked as Chasers on the Gryffindor team, Sarah had developed a certain aversion to the game (and who wouldn't, listening to them talk about it all day and night?), and ordinarily nothing but a spirit of duty to the House would have driven her out here to watch. But she found herself using her Omnioculars to scan the rows of green-clad Slytherin supporters, looking for one particular familiar face...

There he was. Gads, he looked odd wearing green. A little less pale, really, but still...it made her want to transform his robes back to black so he would change into himself again. His expression was less guarded than usual, the sternness replaced with a look of concentration: his attention—unlike hers—was fixed on the players. At least he wasn't singing that inane song the Slytherins had got up. But when his House's team scored their third goal, his smirk was almost broad enough to masquerade as a real smile. Sarah felt her own lips twitch into a grin.

She put down the Omnioculars.

What was she _thinking?_ Gryffindor was down by thirty, and she was _pleased?_ Not about the goal, of course. Although it seemed that the new Gryffindor Keeper was abysmal compared to Oliver Wood, and it was difficult to summon up enthusiasm for ineptitude. But what on earth was she pleased about?

It was with a haunting feeling of guilt that she lifted the Omnioculars again.

* * *

Sarah sat in the empty stands, thinking.

When the fight had broken out, down on the pitch, he had left his seat in a hurry, his usual sourness in evidence again. The Gryffindor players were gone by the time he got to the Slytherin team, who crowded around him, pointing fingers toward their departed opponents and giving what seemed to be a very animated account of the incident. If anyone else had been trying that hard to excuse themselves, they would have been slinking away moments later with a detention. But of course, it was true that Snape favored his Slytherins above everyone else. Sarah had heard (endlessly over the past few days) about his dismissal of Alicia's complaints about being hexed by Miles Bletchley. She had almost asked—in her frustration at having the subject beat into the ground—whether Snape was really _all_ that much worse during Quidditch season than McGonagall was. Only a well-considered sense of what she could get away with saying to the people she had to sleep in the same room with had prevented her.

While excited Gryffindors poured out of the stands, she had sat there still, watching until eventually he moved out of sight back toward the castle, in conference with a blond boy who kept holding his hand to his face. There was a Malfoy who was the Slytherin seeker. She had vague memories of a nasty little white-haired snot at some party or other, a long time ago. It could be the same person. Ugh.

Long after everyone was gone, she sat there, staring at the place where he had been sitting, at the end of the stand he had disappeared around, at the Slytherin banners waving their accusations at her. _Traitor._

_But to whom now_?

This was quite mad.

Sarah leaned her arms on her knees, propping up her head with a hand at each temple, cupped like blinders.

It wasn't as if she'd never had a crush before. She had been dead gone on a seventh year, Martin Mickelson, for a good chunk of her own fourth year. And her weeks of effort to get Fred Weasley to take to her to the Yule Ball last year had ended only when he and his twin had disillusioned her of any growing assurance that she could tell them apart, in a scene so slight and yet so embarrassing that it hardly bore thinking about.

She'd even had a crush on a teacher before, if you could call it that. But several of the older Gryffindor girls had agreed that Professor Lupin was really unbearably cute, in a ragged kind of way. She had certainly never gone out of her way to attract his attention, the way some had.

But this...

It wasn't as if anyone in their right mind would call the man "cute." He and that word weren't even on speaking terms. Sarah took it as meager evidence that she was still at least somewhat in her right mind that she could look at him and see that his nose was more than a little beaky and that his face and hair would probably benefit from the application of soap instead of just water. He must _wash_. He wasn't _dirty_, not in any other evident way. She had noticed that much in the last few days.

The rather frightening thing was that she wasn't sure if it would have made a difference if he were. She _hoped_ so. But if the fact that he truthfully was (in the common Gryffindor parlance) "an ugly git" was not dissuasive enough, she wasn't sure what would be. She had never felt quite like this.

It wasn't love, she was certain of that. Not the helpless devotion her mother had felt for her father. Not even the true affection that she hoped would someday be reciprocated, the substance of which her previous crushes had been a sort of foretaste.

No, this was more about the press of a hand in the dark, the warmth of a body at her back. A level of attraction that was so basic it had nothing to do with pretty faces and pink hearts. A desire that some bone-deep feminine wisdom assured her was nothing to wonder at, no matter how surprising its object.

_Admit it, then._

Ok, so she was _attracted_ to him. Snape. _Professor_ Snape. Head of _Slytherin _House.

Add one more and that was a whole handful of problems. And there were any number of things she might add to the list. Not the least of which was the potential of ending up like her mother.

Sarah had made a point from the very beginning—a resolve that had been reinforced each year since she had turned thirteen by her aunt's back-to-school warnings—of avoiding any kind of interest in Slytherin males. The way they acted, it wasn't all that difficult to remember just what sort they were. Even the pretty-boys like Dirk were a little too transparent in their opinions of themselves to pose much of a temptation. She had begun to hope that, with school safely behind her, she would be able to pursue the rest of her life without constant exposure to the hazards of a romantic alliance with a Slytherin.

Fortunately none of them had ever been interested in her. She was _persona non grata_, as far as they were concerned, after having failed in her patent duty to become one of them. On her first day in Potions, Professor Snape had made the comment: "You appear to have been sorted into the wrong House, Miss Darkglass."

It had set the Slytherins snickering, and Sarah, still terrified that he might be right, had braved, "No, sir."

"One point from Gryffindor. You will not contradict your teachers!"

He had twitted her about it constantly after that, for at least the first month, after which he appeared to have gotten tired of the joke. But it had never completely died. The Weasley twins had instantly suggested, in some fit of cloak and dagger, that she had been planted to spy on a rival House, and idea seemed to have stuck long beyond any special desire to tease her. At least no one in the House had made a particular friend of her. She was ignored. Which was, in some ways, a blessing. Even now, Slytherins bent on mischief, having been reminded of her family connections, occasionally whispered, "Traitor!" to her in the halls.

Which was probably a fair assessment. The Sorting Hat had _tried_.

"Darkglass, hm? There's a name I haven't seen in some time. Cautious about your loyalties, I see."

_Please not Hufflepuff, even if that would make Mother and Auntie happy_.

"Bright in spots, but only as a means to an end."

_Ravenclaw mightn't be so bad._

"Really, it all seems to add up to Slytherin. And yet..."

"I'll _kill_ myself if I'm in Slytherin!" she had whispered back.

"Well, well, can't have that! Better be...GRYFFINDOR!"

And yet here she was, after all, mooning and moping about one of them.

Well...she took a long view on the problem...maybe it was for the best. Maybe this was ultimately the safest way to get it out of her system, to cheat fate, to lose whatever she had inherited from her mother of a weakness or desire for that awful breed. He would never reciprocate. He would never even _notice_. So then...it would be a school-girl crush on the teacher, and when it passed, as it surely would in a few weeks or months at most, this frustrating attraction-to-the-worst would be over and done with for good. And no one would ever know. Especially not Aunt Portia.

Having come to this conclusion, Sarah indulged herself just a little. She watched him at mealtimes all weekend, taking care that her head was not pointed directly at him, shifting her eyes elsewhere if he happened to turn his head in the direction of the Gryffindor table. Which he did, it seemed, with greater frequency as the weekend wore on. Sarah wondered guiltily whether it was true that you could sense it when someone was staring at you.

"It just isn't _fair_," Angelina was saying. "I could use some _ideas_ here." Sarah felt a sharp jab in the arm. She jumped.

"What are you looking at?" Angelina demanded. "We have _problems_ here."

"Just...daydreaming," Sarah said uneasily, turning her attention to her dorm mates.

Apparently, the fight after the match had gotten half the team banned from Quidditch for good. That was the edict from the new so-called Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Professor Umbridge, who had been passing out Ministry decrees like they were candy since her arrival to be the Dark Arts teacher. Although Sarah frankly didn't care that much. Professor Lupin had gotten them all through their O.W.L.s with creditable grades, and Sarah was only sitting for the N.E.W.T. because it seemed like a good credential in these uneasy times. Given that Umbridge's "Ministry-approved curriculum" was so worthless that she was unlikely to pass, she was thinking seriously of dropping the class after the Christmas holiday. Herbology, Potions and Astronomy were quite enough to be going on with. Although she suspected that Umbridge would take her abandonment of the class as a personal affront, which might make the boredom of sticking it out worthwhile, if it would prevent drawing the nasty woman's attention. Just a few more months of school, and she was quit of Hogwarts and whatever the Ministry was trying to do to it.

No, Sarah had no ideas for saving the Quidditch team, and no, she would not try out just to see if she had some unexpected talent. Angelina took this better than expected: they were doomed anyway, and nothing would do any good.

* * *

Potions was after lunch on Monday. Sarah was feeling more cautious by now. She had no intention of being obvious. Even if Snape was oblivious, other people might not be. She would have to keep the pins-and-needles sensation that she felt from the idea of being in his presence and listening to his voice for an hour and a half carefully to herself.

This was the last day they were spending on the rare plant ingredients they had gathered. They had already gone through the icecrop and the stony heath, and now they were dealing with the bitter saxifrage. It, however, had to be dried and powdered, a process that would take some time. Professor Snape lectured for most of the class on the benefits and deficits of various drying procedures. They were then to form into small groups, select the method they believed to be the most suitable for a particular potion of their choosing, and prepare their shared portion of the plant material for drying. It was a nerve-wracking assignment, since they were almost certain to be setting themselves up for future grief. The biting comments wouldn't end with Snape's evaluation of their choices today; they would be hearing about whatever they had gotten wrong for weeks, until the plants were fully dried and powdered and put into a potion to be graded.

Sarah spent the lecture taking more notes than she usually did. Typically she put down only vital information in the most concise form possible; no one who asked to borrow her notes ever asked again. But she tended to remember better if she paid strict attention, instead of trying to compose notes with half of her brain. Today, though, she sensed that she might not be making much sense of what her professor said. Besides, the rapid scratching of her quill on the parchment was a focus for the nervous energy that otherwise threatened to come out in some form of fidgeting.

It also kept her eyes down. Under the influence of his voice, her thoughts kept wandering off into memories, which melted into daydreams. It was easier not to look at someone with thoughts like that about them hiding behind one's eyes. Even as it was, it seemed like every time she did look up, he happened to glance over at her.

Once the group work began, her thoughts were less inclined to wander, since she had to present the merits of her own choice: a potion that, if sealed in a vial and thrown at someone, would, upon breaking, bring stinging tears to their eyes and sharp prickles to their nose and throat, effectively distracting them from throwing spells at you. She had run across it in some private research (motivated, though she didn't admit it, by what had happened on Halloween). The best method of drying the bitter saxifrage for potions that were meant to have a burning effect used the heat from a fire as part of the process. Considering the time of year, it was also the fastest method.

Edwin Dory concurred with her, although Olive Barnley and Billy Ferny argued that the standard method of free suspension was not only easier, it was suited, if not especially well for any one thing, then at least moderately well for a wide range of potions. Sarah didn't think that was the point of the assignment, and said so.

"What have you chosen to do?" Professor Snape said behind her. He had come to evaluate the group far sooner than she expected. The presence of him at her back brought both memories and daydreams to the fore again, leaving her too speechless to respond immediately.

"We're still deciding, sir," Edwin answered.

"We can't agree," said Olive Barnley, petulantly. "_We've_ decided, but they won't agree with us, Professor."

Sarah rolled her eyes and sighed inwardly, knowing that Snape would take the other girl's side, just because she was a Slytherin. And chances were, when it was time to grade the assignment, she and Edwin would be blamed for letting their partners make a poor choice.

"And what have you suggested, Miss Barnley?"

Olive explained.

"And you have not been able to come up with any counter suggestions, Mr. Dory?" Snape asked derisively.

"Sarah thinks we should use the fire method and make Stinging Missile Serum, and I agree with her," Edwin said stoutly.

"I believe that the assignment I gave was to match a drying technique to a _particular_ potion, was it not?"

Olive opened her mouth, as if make some reply; then, as if she realized her mistake, she simply stood there, looking rather like a surprised fish. Billy mumbled something Sarah couldn't make out.

"I'd better come back later, when you've had a chance to come to an agreement," Snape concluded frostily. He moved on to the next group, leaving Sarah with a cold absence along her spine. Had he actually hinted that Olive and Billy should admit that she was _right_?

In the end, they did. Luckily, too. Just before class broke up, after posting the reading homework for the next class session on the board, Snape took a list of their choices, and assigned individual essays in which they were to explain the procedure and defend their group's decision. Sarah didn't think she could have stood trying to defend Olive's idiotic interpretation of the assignment.

Olive got her own back, though. As she passed by Sarah's desk, she bumped intentionally against Sarah's bag, sending it tumbling to the floor, spilling books and packages of potion ingredients into the aisle.

Sarah sighed. It was not worth fighting over. She got down on the floor and started tiredly to retrieve everything, while everyone else hurried out. She was glad she didn't have any other classes this afternoon, or she would have been late.

"That was a rather interesting choice of potions you made, Miss Darkglass," Professor Snape said, as the last students' steps echoed out the door.

She was, she realized, alone with him, and she looked up, astonished. Perhaps he discussed such things with his Slytherin students, but she had never been on the receiving end of a conversational comment. _Or was this just the opening gambit of a criticism about making Olive look bad?_

"Are you aware that Stinging Missiles are part of an Auror's usual equipment?"

Sarah blinked up at him, where he sat behind his desk. He was studying her, as if trying to determine what she was really up to. Her conscience squirmed from her thoughts about him, but she schooled her face to perfect innocence; she felt no guilt whatsoever for anything about the assignment, including embarrassing Olive. _If he was trying to make her uncomfortable for that..._

"Yes, sir," she answered truthfully.

"Do you think you are up to becoming an Auror?" he probed more sharply. Dubiously. _Was this about Halloween night, then? If she couldn't react quickly enough in **that** situation_, he seemed to be implying.

"No, sir," she said. "I've always planned to become an apothecary."

"That's a rather tame profession for a Gryffindor," he remarked snidely.

"If what happened on Halloween is any sample of Auror's work..." Sarah shuddered involuntarily at the memory of how close she had been to dying. "I'd prefer to stick with my original choice."

Snape didn't say anything in reply, just kept watching her as she finished putting away her books and ingredients. But when she picked up her satchel to swing it over her shoulder, he suddenly asked, "Have you arranged an apprenticeship?"

Sarah's heart began pounding so hard it slunk up into her throat. _A Hogwarts apprenticeship?_ Professor Snape didn't take on just any student. _No, why would I even think that?_

"Not yet, sir. I thought over Christmas, I would..."

"I will speak to some people I know," he said, over his steepled fingers. "Dreggs and Pennyworth sometimes have positions available."

_Disappointment? No, no, definitely relief. It would far too unnerving to be his apprentice, especially now._

He went on, "There are other possibilities. Depending, of course, on the marks you receive in your N.E.W.T.s."

"Thank you, Professor," Sarah said wonderingly, puzzled that he would do such a favor for anyone but a Slytherin.

"You may go now, Miss Darkglass," he replied. But he was still watching her with an odd intensity. He couldn't possibly... _No, that is the maddest idea. Up in the daylight, you'll see how silly it is._

She was only halfway to the door when Professor Snape said sharply, "Miss Darkglass." She turned, her stomach lurching.

"Do you know what a Dark Glass _is_?"

"It's a dark magic object," she answered warily, not certain how much she was supposed to know, despite the unlikelihood that anyone would think she was utterly ignorant about her own surname.

"Do you know its uses?" he persisted.

"Mostly...charms involving beauty and...and attraction." The direction of the inquiry was becoming alarming. It wasn't just being questioned about dark magic. It was the look of satisfaction on Professor Snape's face, as if he had caught her out. As if the trend of her thoughts during class had been transparent to him. As if she had actually been trying to... "I've never used one," she averred, becoming angry and frightened all at once at the accusation in his eyes. "I don't _own_ one."

"Surely your father..."

"I don't have _any_ of my father's things." _Didn't he know that the Ministry would have confiscated everything?_ "I wouldn't _want_ them if I did. You said I could go, Professor." She turned and, fully expecting a point deduction to be shouted at her back, stalked out of the room as fast as she could.

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** I've made the assumption that once you are past your O.W.L.s, you only continue to take the classes you are planning to do your N.E.W.T.s in. That may be incorrect. But the fact that Snape warns Harry and Co. that they won't be taking Potions anymore unless they get a grade on their O.W.L.s that he finds acceptable suggests to me that subjects are increasingly more "optional" the older you get.


	3. Ch 2: My Instructions Should Be Clear

**Obligatory Disclaimer: **I do this for fun, not for profit. The copyright still belongs to JKR.

**A/N: **Thanks to Jessie and Nosta-Logic for your reviews!

* * *

**Chapter 2: I Advise You to Comply – My Instructions Should Be Clear**

She collapsed against a wall, two stairways up, trying to get her breath back.

_Face it, Sarah, you ran_.

He thought she was trying to seduce him! How did they get from talk of apprenticeships to _that_? And how did he have any idea what she had been thinking? She had heard more than one person comment that Snape seemed to be able to read minds at times. But she didn't think she had done anything, she hadn't even _thought_ anything bad enough to prompt such an accusation. She felt shaken by the indictment.

At dinner, she sat at the end of the Gryffindor table that was furthest from the staff table, and tried to keep her eyes strictly away from that end of the room. It wasn't easy. She felt as if he must be staring at her, scowling at her, and she wanted to turn around and check to see if her instincts were true or if she was just suffering from a rampage of guilt. She did her homework, especially her Potions homework, in a haze, half her mind occupied with the affront of his allegation, trying to excuse herself or defend herself, trying to tell herself that she never meant to _do_ anything, and how dare he imagine otherwise.

On Tuesday, she was only a little calmer. Classes helped (no Potions). She had almost been afraid that foul Professor Umbridge, who seemed to have an uncanny knack for ferreting out the unacceptable, would start accusing her, too. But Umbridge, like all her teachers, (like Professor Snape up until now), was oblivious to her. It was reassuring.

All the same, she stayed as far away from Snape as possible. A part of her wanted to confront him, to ask what she had done that could possibly have given him such an idea, to lie through her teeth and say she had never thought of him as anything but an ill-tempered teacher. But she knew that it would only make things worse—most people reacted badly to being put on the defensive (she had done so herself), and Snape was worse than most people. The only solution, so far as she could see it, was to avoid bringing herself to his attention in the slightest, to act in such a way that it would be evident to anyone that seducing him was the furthest thing from her mind.

* * *

Sarah had never dreaded Potions as much as she did on Wednesday. Double Potions, for that matter. She retrieved her cauldron from the storage area and set to work laying out all the things she expected to need, studiously ignoring everyone around her so that it wouldn't appear strange not to look up when Professor Snape came in. She opened her Potions book and slouched in her chair, trying to partially hide behind it. 

For once she actually hoped that Fred and George Weasley would pull one of their horrible tricks during class. She would rather watch Snape rant and rave and take any number of points from Gryffindor than have him staring accusingly at her as he had done on Monday. But the red-haired twins had been decreasingly troublesome since they had joined the N.E.W.T class last year (how they had scraped 'O's on their O.W.L.s, she had no idea). If she didn't have so much difficulty imagining them agreeing to any special restrictions on their behavior, she would have thought that Snape had set extra conditions on their acceptance to his N.E.W.T. class. The only thing left to assume was that, for reasons unknown, they had decided to get as much uninterrupted educational benefit as possible from Potions. Admittedly, they had been selling huge amounts of homemade joke supplies to other students this year, between classes, but they were careful not to let any teacher catch them at it, least of all Snape.

"Today you will be compounding the Ignatias Tonic," his familiar voice rang out as his footfalls crossed to the front of the room. "Can anyone tell me what it is used for? Yes, Miss Bulstrode."

Harriet Bulstrode answered superciliously, "It's a healing potion, used to eliminate any lasting aftereffects of enchantments."

"Correct. Ten points to Slytherin." Sarah heard the tap of his wand on the blackboard. "Here are your instructions. Note that this potion requires _minced_ rather than powdered asphodel. Miss Darkglass, since you appear to have left your studying until the last _possible_ moment..." Sarah snapped her textbook closed in consternation, and knowing that avoidance would only make the situation worse, raised her eyes hesitantly. "The information should still be fresh in your mind. Can you explain the differences between the properties of minced and powdered asphodel?"

It was only his typical sneer that she saw; he was expecting her not to know the answer. Nothing more. "Powdered asphodel works more quickly," she said, trying to not to sound as breathless as she felt. She had read the material last night; she knew it perfectly well. "Both in the potion itself and in the process of combining with the other ingredients."

"Hmmm. And the practical application of the difference for Ignatias Tonic?" If there was nothing more intense than usual about his gaze, why could she not blink?

"I...uh," she stammered, trying to focus on the question. "I think that, because everything has to be added so slowly and carefully..."

"Let's see if you are able to put that theory into practice. Everyone may begin. Samples on my desk for testing in three hours."

Sarah forced her eyes back to her desk. She tried to immerse herself in the hypnotically serene state that intent potion work usually generated for her, but she was constantly aware of Professor Snape's progress around the room as he doled out criticism to anyone who failed to meet his exacting procedural standards. Two hours into the effort, she was reaching for her beaker of salamander blood when he stopped in front of her desk.

_Keep your eyes on your work. Hands steady._

"I believe you mentioned adding ingredients carefully, Miss Darkglass. The salamander blood is to be poured in a small steady stream, not in great glops."

_Well, if my hands wouldn't shake so much. If you didn't stare at me..._

"_Carefully_," he snapped, and suddenly his hand was locked over hers, reducing the salamander blood to the appropriate trickle.

Sarah shut her eyes. Halloween night the situation had been far more dire than a spoiled potion. But the solid feeling of his hand around hers was no different now. Her heart was again forcing adrenalin through her system from its new location in her throat, although this time for other reasons. There was an insidious power lighting up regions of her brain and body which made it quite clear that what had begun on Halloween night, what she had recognized on Saturday, was only growing worse.

_This is very, very wrong_.

More horrifying was that Professor Snape must be entirely aware of what was happening. Especially after his comments yesterday. Was he mocking her? She opened her eyes as the last of the salamander blood poured into the cauldron. Dark irises studied her from the other side of their joined hands. Then a blink and, inconceivably, a look of alarm. He let go of her hand as if it had bit him, and he turned abruptly away.

Professor Snape had never, ever, to Sarah's knowledge, touched a student during a class, no matter what they were doing incorrectly.

A tremor shot through the hand holding the empty beaker, and there was a crash as it dropped from her nerveless fingers to the stone floor.

Sarah was not the only one who gasped, and now every eye in the room was on her.

"Leave it," Snape ordered, stalking back to his desk. "Carry on with your potion before something _else_ goes wrong. You will remain after class to clean up. Until then, everyone should take special care not to tread on the results of Miss Darkglass's...clumsiness." And, as if it were an afterthought, "Twenty points from Gryffindor."

Mortification steadied Sarah's nerves in a way that mere agitation had been unable to do. She managed to finish the Ignatias Tonic more creditably than she dared hope, although she knew the color was off enough that it would barely qualify for an "Acceptable." Assuming Professor Snape didn't count the beaker accident against her grade for the potion, which he was all too likely to do.

"For next class, two feet of parchment on the effects of relative speed in the adding of potion ingredients." The seventh years emptied the room promptly, eager to forget the rigors of potion-making over lunch.

Sarah had put away her books and potion ingredients, and was looking down at the shattered glass on the floor beside her desk. There was no one else in the classroom and her heart was pounding again much harder.

"Without magic," Snape said.

As if she didn't know that. She took a bit of used parchment from her bag and crouched down. The sooner she got out of here the better.

"_What_ do you think you are doing?"

"Cleaning up after my _clumsiness_." She shot him a look that she meant to be defiant. It was his fault, after all, that she had dropped the beaker. But his expression was...inscrutable.

"As much," he said tightly, "as I would enjoy being able to tell Professor McGonagall about yet another example of a Gryffindor's cavalier stupidity, I do not care to deal with the results if you should happen to cut your hand on a bit of glass soaked in salamander blood."

He had a point, really. The stuff was only a bit acidic to the skin, but in the bloodstream it was a nasty toxin.

"I was being careful," she said, defensively. _I was in a hurry._

"Use the appropriate equipment, Miss Darkglass," he ordered.

The appropriate equipment—which included snakeskin gloves—was one reason she had opted to do the clean up her own way. As she slipped the foul things onto her hands and the sizing charm shrunk them to fit like a second skin, which made fine work like gathering up bits of glass possible, she thought she could see her Potions professor smirking out of the corner of her eye. But when she turned to face him directly, his expression had changed again. One might almost think he was...disturbed about something.

Sarah made as short work as she could of cleaning up the glass, her skin burning with the awareness of his dark eyes watching her every move from behind his desk. When she had replaced the scraper and shed the gloves, she hurried to her desk to retrieve her satchel.

"Miss Darkglass?"

She stopped. What could he possibly mean to say to her? Something snide and nasty about the impropriety of having a crush on a teacher? Or something particularly cutting because she had dared to think of _him_, of all people, in such a way? As if she could help her reactions. She didn't _want_ them, any more than he did. _Did _she? Or did_ he?_

"Supposing I suggested that you drop my class?"

Sarah, having expected a blow to the head, felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. "I'd...I'd fail my Potions N.E.W.T. I wouldn't get an apprenticeship," she said hollowly.

"That would be...unfortunate," he answered, without a trace of sympathy in his voice.

_How could he do this?_ Sarah might complain to Professor McGonagall, but ultimately the answer would probably be that Professor Snape had every right to kick her out of his class if he chose to do so. And Sarah certainly had no desire for McGonagall to hear whatever account Snape might give of her behavior.

"My Potions work is fine!" she protested. "I get above average marks on every assignment!"

He cut her off, "This isn't about your schoolwork, Miss Darkglass. Or do you wish me to believe that you don't realize that?"

"I am not trying to bring attention to myself, Professor! Not your attention. Not anyone's."

His black eyes stared, and his lips twitched slightly. "Has it possibly occurred to you that an effort on your part might be...unnecessary?"

Sarah stared at him, open-mouthed. No, it was not _possible_ that he might have had the same reaction to the events of Halloween. And yet...there was a tenseness about him that was unusually strong for someone who normally exuded hair-trigger tension. And his eyes, she realized, had been on her just as often as...

Sarah let out the breath she had been holding for far too long.

"You...you don't mean that...that you..."

"I just hope your classmates are as dull-witted." Snape stood up and paced around his desk. "I don't pretend to understand how this predicament arose from our little adventure last week..."

"_I didn't do anything!_"

"I cannot find any evidence that you did. If at some point I do, I will see to it that you are expelled." He turned in his pacing. "However, the fact remains that there is now some degree of...inappropriate attraction...mutually." He looked at her as if seeking confirmation of his supposition.

There was no point in denying it, although with hot and cold fire running in her veins, it was difficult to decide if she should or not. Sarah let her chin drop in a slight nod.

"So." There was a peculiar look of horror in his eyes, as if he had just discovered that one of his dried dung beetles was actually alive. His face hardened to the pessimistic expression he wore for his younger classes, and when he spoke again his voice matched it. "If you are to remain in my class, Miss Darkglass, there are certain...precautions. First, you will never again be alone with me in this classroom, my office or anywhere else. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He was right, of course. And yet she felt hypnotized, fixed by his dark gaze like a cobra's prey.

"You will never stay after class for any reason. You will come in with the second half of the students who enter and leave before half are gone. Do you agree?"

"I agree," she said stoutly, trying to assert some sense of control over her own words.

"So damned agreeable," he sneered.

She did not know what to say, or if she should say anything. She should leave. Now. Even without permission. But she stood unmoving, watching him watching her.

"Finally," he said, and something in both his voice and his face grew darker yet. "Your determination to circumvent classroom clean-up procedures has earned you a detention. Tonight at eight o'clock." Sarah blinked, sure that she could not be hearing correctly. "If you should choose not to show up for any reason, you will sit your detention with Professor McGonagall later in the week." He spoke this last slowly, as if to allow no room for confusion in what he meant. "You are dismissed." He turned away.

Sarah snagged her satchel and retreated, her breath catching in her throat at every step. An _optional_ detention? One which went entirely against the rules he had just set down? There was no room at all to doubt the meaning in that.

The only question was whether or not she would go.

By the drift of the students in the hallways, she had missed lunch altogether. She started down the corridor to the library. She had a Potions essay to write.

* * *

**A/N:** Fred and George Weasley got three O.W.L.s apiece, according to the books. We know they are taking Herbology and Charms in their seventh year. Given the kind of extracurricular activities they engage in, I've postulated that their third O.W.L. would be in Potions. 


	4. Ch 3: No Second Thoughts

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** You want me to turn out my pockets? I don't own Harry Potter, I just like to play in his universe.

**A/N:** Thanks to cecelle and SnapeFan for the reviews! Please keep reading and reviewing; that's what fic authors live on.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Now I Am Here With You: No Second Thoughts, I've Decided**

Sarah knocked on the door of Professor Snape's office.

_What am I doing here?_

No answer.

_Is that my cue to leave? Now, before I get deeper into this?_

Finally. "Come in."

Taking a deep breath to control the sudden trembling that shook her, Sarah entered. Professor Snape stood behind his desk, looking at her dubiously.

"You said eight o'clock," she remarked.

"I should have known better," he said morosely, "than to offer a dare to a Gryffindor."

_Was that all this was, then? Was he mocking her after all, just upping the stakes before he struck the final blow? Of course, he was a Slytherin. She should have known better._

"I wasn't aware that you gave out detentions as a dare." She lifted her chin slightly.

The barb must have struck home, because his expression soured further.

"And yet you viewed this...detention...as a dare, didn't you, Miss Darkglass?"

_Touché_. Sarah was not sure how to answer.

"Well, speak up: why are you here?"

_Well, you did give me detention. Although I knew that wasn't what you meant. The truth then, as much as I know it?_

"I'm here...for the same reason you asked me to come."

He leaned forward menacingly across the desk. "And do you _presume_ to know the reasons for my actions?"

Sarah studied him, surprised at her own failure to flinch. He was angry, but not in the way that was his usual reaction to student stupidity. It was the more unstable kind of anger that appeared when someone had tried to defy him, or when someone had come close—an admittedly rare event—to proving him wrong.

"We both know why you set down rules for...for my presence in your class," she answered. "I can only assume why you would ask me to break those rules." _And in almost the same breath, too_.

He let go of the desk and stood up straight, his eyes curiously uneasy before he looked away. He seemed to be studying the jars full of horrid specimens that lined the shelves. Finally he said, quietly, as if the fact were somehow unbelievable, "And yet, you came."

_I shouldn't have come_.

"Yes. Sir."

Silence, broken only by their own unsteady breathing.

He whirled to face her again. "You should not be here."

And yet she was. "I know that."

"Do you, I wonder?" he said more sharply. "Do you understand _why_ this is wrong?"

Calmly. "Because you're a teacher and I'm a student." Although as she said it, she realized that this was exactly what had been troubling her so much when he looked at her—the absence of that impassive stare he habitually threw at the students who had sat in his class for seven years. It was as if she had turned into someone—or something—else in his eyes.

"And do you know _why_ that makes our...interaction...forbidden?"

Sarah blinked. It _was_ wrong, of course, but it was the sort of thing that she had simply taken for granted as being wrong. She had no idea.

"Power," Snape whispered tightly. "Vastly _unequal _power. In which lies the potential for manipulation. For coercion."

"Well, you must always enjoy _that _part," Sarah riposted, suddenly tired of whatever game he was playing.

His face darkened. For a moment of alarm, she wondered if he would strike her. "I am not in the habit," he said, "of seducing my students, Miss Darkglass."

"Then...why me?" Sarah asked, feeling her limbs go to water, as they had not done since she came through the door.

"I might ask the same question." He touched steepled fingers to his lips. "How many of your friends know where you were going and why?"

"No one." To be truthful. "At least no one who knows that this is anything other than a detention. I don't have that kind of friendships."

"Really? I would have thought that seducing a teacher would come in under the category of adolescent dares. An extra notch on your belt, or however girls keep track of their conquests."

"I haven't got any _notches_," Sarah said derisively. Which was tantamount to admitting that she was a virgin. Whether he would find that more appealing or less, she had no idea. It was not something she was going to apologize for.

It did seem to take him aback slightly. She could see him studying her, thinking, although it was impossible to tell of what.

"I really think," he said slowly, "that you had better go back to your dormitory."

_Rescued from fate?_ Then why did she feel as if her breath were being crushed out? She was being drawn back from the edge of the inevitable and something in her wanted to keep falling.

"Will you tell Professor McGonagall?" she heard herself saying.

"That...will not be necessary."

_Snape letting her out of a detention altogether?_

Silence again. They stood looking at each other. _He isn't anything that a girl would want_, Sarah told herself, trying to make herself see the rather ugly, unpleasant man who taught Potions. But all she could think of was the firm grip of his hands and the sound of his voice when they were probably going to die.

"Why are you standing here, Miss Darkglass?"

"You haven't dismissed me, Professor."

"Go, then." The intake of his breath afterward was sharp enough for her to hear it.

Breaking their locked gazes was almost physically painful, but she made herself turn, because he had told her to go, and she wasn't about to throw herself at his feet. Forcing herself to take a step toward the door was even more difficult. _Nonsense, you've been walking since you were a year old_. A step then. And another.

"Sarah..."

She stopped. There had been something of anguish in her name. Footsteps, quiet as the tread of a cat. She shut her eyes, shaking.

A touch on her chin, lifting her face. Warm breath. A kiss, which she did not resist. But there was hesitance in it, or restraint. She opened her eyes.

"Is that enough to convince you?" he asked, inches away.

"Of what?"

"That you don't want to be here."

"Oh." It had been so strange. Not a boy's kiss, for all its uncertainty. She wanted him to kiss her again so she could investigate further. "No."

"What will it take? How far do I have to push?" His lips were on hers again, one hand pressing the back of her head, the other going around her waist. There was no hesitation this time; it was almost savage. When he released her she was gasping for breath, her mouth stinging. "Are you ready to leave yet?" he sneered.

_What else could I expect from a Slytherin?_

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked, in earnest, but hardly expecting anything but more games and evasions.

"I want..." He tempered his voice, bringing it down to a knife edge. "I want you to understand—perfectly—what you are doing."

_How could I not understand, as my parents' daughter? But I'm not my mother. I won't fall in love with one of them._ "I'm sure you take me for a fool, but I wouldn't have come here if I didn't understand exactly what might happen." Sarah did not like how her words shook.

"Then understand this," his voice was almost a hiss, and his hand tightened in her hair. "Whatever happens, you will tell no one. Not your best friend, not your worst enemy. You won't even whisper it to your familiar in the middle of the night."

"I would never. And I haven't got a familiar."

He went on as if he had not heard her. "Second, you will not stare at me in class, longingly or otherwise," he gave the words a contemptuous twist, "or behave anywhere publicly as if anything had happened tonight apart from you scouring cauldrons.

"And third..." He took another breath, and his eyes seemed to stab into hers. "You may think now that you are certain of your own reactions, but I warn you that there _will_ come a point of no return, and I will not be answerable for anything that happens should you choose to remain here beyond it."

"I understand," Sarah said, challenging his deep black eyes. "_Perfectly_."

To her surprise, he let her go, but after a moment the reason was clear. He took out his wand, approached a tapestry hanging on the wall that depicted, almost lost amongst its riot of woven herbs, a unicorn in combat with a serpent, and tapped a pattern on the stones. "Betony, blackthorn, elder, rosemary," he murmured, hardly to be heard. He pushed aside the tapestry, revealing an archway into a room beyond. "After you."

The feeling that she was stepping into a dragon's lair was not dispelled by the room in which she actually found herself. It was his private workroom. The state of the walls suggested habits of experimentation that sometimes resulted in minor explosions, which might explain why he kept his ingredients stores outside in his office. A number of potions seemed to be in progress, only a couple of which Sarah recognized.

"Don't touch _anything_," he snapped. He moved to the right side of the room. A few more taps. "Fennel and hypericum." Another archway appeared.

_Deeper into the lair_. It was harder to breathe here, although the air felt no closer. It was more difficult, too, to make herself see her surroundings. A fireplace, unlit; that was safe enough. A chair and an ottoman in front of it, darkly upholstered. Shelves and shelves of books, along the wall they had come through. The back of an ordinary portrait door off to the left, although she felt too disoriented to try to guess which painting and which hallway. Another narrow archway...bathroom? Wardrobe, closed. Two chests, of considerably different sizes. Stuck to the few spaces of bare wall were posters, the sort available in apothecary shops, illustrating various classes of potions ingredients.

_Pull yourself together, if you're so determined not to back out of this. Yes, there is a bed._ Dark green velvet trappings, with silver trim...

He moved into her field of vision and picked up a clear crystal, about the size of a child's fist, from a shelf. He murmured a charm over it, then looked at her. "I want it clear that you are here of your own free will."

_What free will? Oh, yes, I remember, I get to choose just how fully I'll share my mother's fate._ "I'm here of my own free will," Sarah said firmly to the crystal. It glowed blue for a moment. A recording charm. Naturally he would leave nothing to chance. No running to McGonagall claiming that he had taken advantage.

He set the crystal back on the shelf. "You can leave whenever you choose."

"No," Sarah whispered, with the slightest shake of her head.

"No, you don't believe you can? Or no, you don't want to?" He approached her, all darkness and height; the top of her head only came up to the end of his long, beaked nose.

"I don't want to."

He kissed her again, then, his hands on her shoulders, stilling her shaking. She found herself clutching the front of his robes. Whenever the kissing stopped for a moment, she looked up at a puzzled, even a suspicious, expression in his eyes.

The kisses, though. They began again with hesitance, but proceeded rapidly, although with some subtlety along the way, to demanding. She had been kissed before, but never like that. And her body, like the traitor it was, answered that demand as if she were, in fact, his possession. The one small remaining reasonable corner of her mind wanted to heave at that notion, but it was being outvoted. It was all she could do not to press closer to him, while the urging to do that and more flushed through all her distinctly female parts, spreading through her body like a strong and possibly poisoned wine.

Pressed back and back by his hands, her robes fell off her shoulders, puddling behind her feet. He caught her up and carried her three or four steps. Her heart, pounding already, lurched a bit higher.

_But this is what you came here for, isn't it?_

The covers had already been turned back. She would have expected something more exotic—black silk or some such. But the sheets were the same crisp white cotton as those on the student beds. _There's house-elf efficiency for you_.

While he stared down at her rather grimly, almost as if he wondered what strange creature had made its way into his bed and what he would have to do about it, her professor shed his own outer robes. Then he crawled in on top of her.

* * *

**A/N:** This is **not** the end of this scene, BTW, only the end of the chapter. Just so you know. >:) 

FYI, about the clothing, I'm trying to take a happy medium somewhere between the books (in which robes seem to be _all_ that some wizards wear) and the movies (because as nice as all those buttons are, I think they are just a little over the top, at least for canonSnape). I've seen it argued that Snape must be in the robes-only club, but personally I think that the experience that we see in the Pensieve in OotP would probably be traumatic enough that he would wear more than underpants under his robes in the future. For Sarah, I do keep closer to the student costumes from the movies. So much for consistency.


	5. Ch 4: Past the Point of No Return

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** You don't believe that I think I own Harry Potter. This is not the story you want to sue me about. Move along.

**A/N:** Thank you for reviewing, lucidity! I'm not sure when the age of majority is in the UK, but in the wizarding world it's 17. Sarah is either 17 or 18—haven't decided yet just when her birthday is. I'd be happy to take suggestions about that! And yes, I think even in the wizarding world, a teacher could get fired for having a relationship with a student. I wanted to write a fic that takes that into account.

**I will give fair warning** - this chapter is not for the squeamish, and it's one of the main reasons this story is rated "R." I really try not to do "graphic," but there's a certain grimness and "ick" factor that you may not care to expose yourself. If that applies to you, or if you are under the age of 17 and reading this story anyway, I recommend that you skip to very last section of the chapter.

**

* * *

Chapter 4: Past the Point of No Return**

For a while the world narrowed to breathing and not being able to breathe. Between the intervals of the latter, it occurred to her that she was the very picture of dishevelment. She had lost her shoes somewhere along the way, and with her skirt pushed halfway up and her vest askew, the front tails of her blouse sticking out from underneath where he had reached up inside it...if anyone saw her now, no rapid scramble to correct her appearance was going to hide what they had been doing. But there was no knock on the door, no footsteps out in the deserted dungeon corridor. If she should suddenly decide to scream for help, no one would hear her.

The thought was like a splash of cold water. As if it had caught him as well, he stopped groping and looked into her eyes. Abruptly he rolled off her and lay beside her gasping. The sudden break left her body protesting.

"Point of no return," he hissed between breaths. "_And don't waste time deciding_."

There were words for a woman who would leave a man in a situation like this. Ugly ones that Sarah had overheard in the common room.

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not that kind of girl." Then, because she saw a glimmer of doubt in his eyes as he rolled onto his side to face her—_not the kind of girl who would actually sleep with her teacher?_—she said, "If I had intended to leave, I wouldn't have come here at all."

If there had been any randomness in his seduction before, there was none now. As he kissed her, one hand then another fumbled at his waist. Her skirt migrated the rest of the way up, and as he settled against her, she became shockingly aware that the only thing protecting her virtue—such as it was—from immediate ruin was the thin cotton layer of her smallclothes.

He dealt with the problem, but not in any way she might have expected. Frowning, he leaned back again, retrieved his wand from its pocket and whispered fiercely a charm she had never heard before, "_Rapacio!_"

The chill that ran through her blood _might_ be on account of the brush of cold air where she was suddenly missing her underpants, but she doubted it. But it was far too late to decide that there might be something frightening about having a Slytherin for a lover, especially one that rumor credited with an old allegiance to...

Too late...

His mouth on hers stopped the involuntary cry of pain at her lips. _That hurt!_ She hadn't imagined that it would feel like... How badly was she injured? And how on earth would she explain to Madam Pomfrey how...?

Tears welled up in her eyes. But he had released her lips and now he was staring down her with the same probing gaze with which he sought out weaknesses in the classroom, a warning that he would mock her for weeping. She blinked in an effort to hold back the tears, but her trembling lashes threw a single drop onto her cheek.

Delicately, as if handling some fragile ingredient, he caught it up on a fingertip. Then, to Sarah's horror, he brought it to his lips. _What did it taste of? Pain? Fear? Was that what he wanted to taste?_ Had he _intended_ this to seem like rape, no matter how willing she might have been? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his wand where he had dropped it on the bed, and her underwear just a little beyond.

She turned her eyes back to him. Tears or no tears, the sense of betrayal must be pouring out, because his expression tightened into anger.

"Were you actually so innocent that you didn't know that it would hurt?"

The words stung. He had that knack of making everything seem as if it were one's own fault. Curiously, the familiar tang of it stiffened her spine.

"I knew," she whispered, defying the darkness of his eyes. "Just not how much." Although, in truth, the pain was dissolving, fading to a stinging ache, leaving her aware of pressure and other sensations that tried to rekindle the desire that driven her there to begin with.

She hadn't expected such an answer to change anything, but his forehead smoothed, and he bent to kiss her again. She swallowed a whimper as he moved against her, renewing the pain. But there was more to it than pain now. She wanted to laugh at herself. All the time that she was kissing him, that her hands were crushing the fabric of his shirt, her mind was hunched up in the back of her skull taking notes. _So this is what it's like._

_Not quite the lesson you would expect from your Potions professor._

It did not last very long. His breathing tightened, a terrible tenseness that shook his whole body. A sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan, escaped his lips. All the strength that held him together, body and soul, seemed, for a long, long moment, to pour into her and through her like a flood of magic.

Then there was breathing, just breathing, quieting from ragged to barely audible.

Finally he eased himself away from her. Her body protested that there must be more than that. And yet somehow that rush of energy had been satisfying in a way that few things in her life had ever been.

Snatching up his wand from the sheets, he slid out of the bed. "I've no doubt," he said, with still a hint of breathlessness that marred the sneer, "that you will find this crass. But I'm not about to waste perfectly good ingredients."

"_Ingredients?_" Her legs were cold, she realized, although she found that she did not yet have the will to sit up and do something about it.

"You don't really think, do you," his voice carried in from the workroom, "that when a potion calls for a drop of virgin's blood, you're supposed to make a donation by pricking your finger?"

Her mouth still formed an "Oh!" when he came back through the doorway. His hands were full of squares of cotton wool, some of it already smeared with blood.

"_Inspongus!_"

With a tingle, the damp mess between her legs was cleaned away. She pushed herself backward and up into a sitting position. The stain of blood on the sheet, startlingly wide, got the same treatment, disappearing into the cotton wool as if it had never happened. And with that, he stalked back off into his workroom.

Ok, so it _was_ crass. But the curiosity of a Potions student overcame any thought of being upset with him. She grabbed for her underpants and, having made an effort to pull her appearance back together, she tiptoed to the doorway.

"Not falling apart?" he asked over his shoulder. He had placed the besmirched cotton wool into a glass jar on one of the worktables.

"Why should I?" she returned.

In lieu of a reply, he pointed his wand in her direction. "_Accio librum materiae humani!_"

The instinct to dodge was fortunate. A book zoomed through the doorway, neatly missing her head. He caught it and began flipping through the pages.

"If you have retained sufficient presence of mind to act as an assistant, you will do so. If not..." he gestured dismissively toward the office doorway, shadowed by the tapestry that hung outside it, "leave."

Sarah swallowed hard, trying to quiet her heart, which was still thumping madly from the supposed attack. "You want an assistant?" she asked warily.

"Not particularly," he snapped. "However, as you will no longer have the opportunity of preparing your own supply during your apprenticeship, you should at least participate. Especially since, unfortunately, I am obliged to split the proceeds with you."

"So female Potions apprentices usually...?" Every trade had its secrets, but this...

"Yes." Having located whatever information he was seeking, he snapped the book shut and reached for one of the beakers of common solvents. He poured it carefully into the jar until all the cotton wool was submerged. Tendrils of red swirled into the liquid.

"With their instructor." _Fascinating_.

"Or a fellow apprentice," he answered, a little too offhandedly. "You are hardly in a position to find that startling, Miss Darkglass. Now, study the instructions." He held out the book. "Near the end."

Sarah came forward and took it. The covers were of a remarkably fine-grained but worn black leather. The title on the spine was still just visible, although tarnish had darkened the silver leaf: _The Collection and Preparation of Human Ingredients_.

It was the sort of book, she felt instinctively, that would have been in her father's private library at Darkglass Hall, and she opened it with trepidation.

**_Viscera_**. That was a little too far, assuming that the contents were arranged alphabetically. But the illustrations of intestines being drawn out and wound up on spool were disturbing enough that she flipped a whole section of pages backward in her haste to rid herself of the images.

**_Liqueur Mortis_**. Unfamiliar with the words, she let her eyes pause on the page. _This is a powerful fluid_, the book informed her, _distilled from all the collected excretions of the subject while they are dying_. A bound, naked figure, illustrated in obvious agony, was suspended from the waist above a large cauldron, blood or vomit gushing from his open mouth.

Sarah shut her eyes and then the book. "I think," she whispered, "that I'm going to be sick."

"Use the bathroom!" Snape ordered sharply.

Sarah took a deep breath. "No, no, I'm all right."

"If you aren't capable of so much as finding a recipe..."

Sarah flicked through the pages with her eyes barely glancing off the titles. "There." **_Virgin's Blood_**. _An essential ingredient in some of the more powerful healing potions, as well as draughts for binding men to_... "Most of the things in this book are only used in the Dark Arts," she said. She could hear the hint of accusation in her own voice; surely Snape would not miss it.

"I am aware of that," he said tightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the jar.

Sarah could not seem to stop herself. "People say that you..."

Darker still. "I am also aware of what is said about me."

_Keep your mouth shut, Sarah_. "Does Professor Dumbledore know that you have books like this?" _No, I have to know_.

He turned; his eyes were less hard than she expected. "I assure you that the headmaster knows perfectly well that I have done far worse things in my life than take one of his students to bed." There was a curious note of guilt—just the vaguest hint—in his voice. "The _instructions_, Miss Darkglass."

Sarah bent her head over the book. _The best choice for obtaining the required raw materials may vary depending on the desired end use. For healing potions, a bride on her wedding night produces the highest quality product..._

Well, so much for that.

_... while rape is sometimes to be preferred. However, except in the most delicate instances, the differences are usually minimal._ The preparation process, as she expected, was tricky—blood was difficult to work with, because even minor errors would cause it to congeal hopelessly within moments. Dilution in the appropriate solute—Snape was still tending the jar—was just the beginning.

Sarah turned the page, finishing off a paragraph full of cautions. The next subheading read: _Suggestions for Maximizing Blood Flow_. She scanned it reluctantly, her face growing hot.

"It's been exactly eighteen minutes. Tongs?"

She looked up and saw that she was closer to the rotating tool rack. "Wood or metal?"

"Wood."

She passed him the requested item, then watched as he fished the soggy cotton wool out of the swirling red murk. It was excessively disconcerting to consider that it was her own blood in there.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" Suspiciously. Or maybe just distractedly. The damp cotton wool was making a ruddy mess of the worktable. "_Evanesco!_"

"For not following the...um...suggestions." She jerked the book slightly.

"Hmph," he snorted. "Let me see that." But he flipped back the page to check on the next step in the process.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Sarah dragged herself up the stairs of Gryffindor Tower with a tiny vial clenched in her fist. Up in her room, she opened her trunk, grabbed the first soft article she could find (disturbingly, it was a old pair of underpants), wrapped the vial in it, and stuffed it deep into the corner of the trunk. 

"Wow, it's late."

Sarah jumped.

Angelina went on sleepily, "Did you have to scrub the whole dungeon floor?"

"Uh...no. Snape was...um...working on a...uh...complicated potion, and I had to do the...um...messy stuff." Sarah, who had never had difficulty saying whatever needed to be said, found herself tripping over the lie. She hoped that Angelina was sleepy enough not to notice.

"Oh...well, that sounds less painful than usual." Sarah heard Angelina turn over and her breathing change to a half-snore.

_You've **no **idea_...

She slipped off her clothes and pulled on her nightdress. With every brush of the fabric, his touch still clung to her skin. When she climbed into bed, the weight of her blankets... _Don't think about it!_

Sarah curled up on her side and tried to think of something..._anything_...else. But her usual getting-to-sleep habit of mentally listing potion ingredients was no help tonight. A succession of uncomfortable thoughts crowded through her mind instead. _Go back to your dormitory...Rapacio!...the liqueur mortis—no, anything but that...her own blood swirling round and round in the jar...the potential for manipulation..._

_It won't happen again. You know it won't._

_Well, then, it won't. I got something out of it, didn't I? A rare potion ingredient._

_Experience?_

_That, too. Sort of._

_You want to do it again._

_Sort of._

_Sort of? So who are you going to encourage?_

_Well, not a Slytherin. Not a Gryffindor either. Maybe I'll wait until Christmas holidays. Maybe Michael will want to..._

_Maybe._

She tried to conjure up Michael's face, his silly grin, his close-cropped red hair. Weariness hit her with a crash like a wave, knocking her over, setting her afloat; her nerves had been strung tight all day...no, all week...since... Michael would kiss her, very, very gently. Sarah drifted. His hand was stroking the back of her head. That was so nice. Warm, it was warm. He was so close and warm, and his dark hair fell against her cheek like a curtain, shutting everyone and everything else out.

_Warm. Safe._

**

* * *

A/N:** The _Liqueur Mortis _is not my own invention. It appears (under another name) in Fred Saberhagen's _A Matter of Taste_, described in _far_ more gory detail than I did. The worst potion I think I've ever encountered in fiction. It's the reason I don't read Saberhagen's vampire novels anymore (despite the fact that the earlier ones, especially _The Holmes-Dracula File_ and _An Old Friend of the Family_ are quite good). 


	6. Ch 5: Here, I Have a Note

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Yeah, I own Harry Potter. I also own a bridge in Brooklyn. Wanna buy it?

**A/N:** Something a little more low key, after the high pitch we've been on.

**

* * *

Chapter 5: Here, I Have a Note...**

Sarah was true to her word. In Potions on Thursday she neither stared at Professor Snape nor behaved like a lovesick schoolgirl. The fact that she was not in love helped. But the real trick was a kind of mental disconnect—the girl who had gone to the dungeons last night was _not_ the girl who had once sat in class every day, innocent of such thoughts as she had known since Halloween. And while she was in class, she would set aside the mantle of the stranger she was becoming, and instead slip back into that blameless girl's robes.

It was not easy to maintain. New thoughts interrupted her old ones at untoward moments. She took sparse notes, as she used to, but she wasn't absorbing anything he said. Was he the same as always? Did he seem a little tired? Or something else?

There was no point in agonizing over it, she chided herself. _It's over, that's the end. You're a little older, a little wiser for it. If you keep at this, you'll end up hating him for something you never expected from him to begin with_.

Class finally ended. Snape passed out their parchments from the essay they had handed in on Wednesday.

"Wow, an 'E'—better than I thought!" Amanda Jorgen, the Hufflepuff who had sat next to her today, remarked softly as they gathered up their books.

Sarah scanned her own paper. She turned it over. Nothing. "He didn't mark it."

"Huh?" The other girl was rolling up and tucking away her parchment.

"He didn't grade my essay," Sarah said numbly.

"Whoa," Amanda said, swinging her bookbag onto her shoulder. "Has that ever happened before?"

"No." Sarah felt her stomach knotting up. She looked up in time to see his office door closing.

"Better go talk to him about it, I guess." Amanda made a face. "Poor you."

"I can't now, we have Herbology." She would have to come back later. She could manage it before dinner, if she hurried back from the greenhouses.

No grade. Did that...did that imply she would have to do something _more_ to get one? Sarah's anxiety began transforming slowly into anger.

* * *

It was just after four o'clock when Sarah stalked into Professor Snape's office without even knocking. 

"The _door_, Miss Darkglass?"

She shut it. Hard.

"If you think," Sarah said furiously, thrusting out the unmarked parchment, "that I will now participate in _bribery_ in order to get my grades..." She stopped, half-choking on her own fury.

Professor Snape took the parchment from her. "I believe the correct word is _extortion_," he said coldly. He snatched up a quill, slashed it stabbingly across the upper corner, and tossed the essay onto her side of the desk. "There. That will be all."

Sarah stared at the "A." Not as high as her usual marks, but considering how distracted she had been when she wrote it, she had not expected any better. It was a fair grade.

"You may _go_," he repeated.

She looked up. "No."

"_What did you say?_"

"No, _Professor_. You wanted to talk to me."

"To _talk_ to you, Miss Darkglass, not to be _shouted at_ by you."

Sarah swallowed, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but she remembered how the absent grade had disturbed her—_he must have known how I would take it_—and instead said tightly, "I am not shouting now."

"Then sit down," he ordered. "If you fly at me like a shrew again, this conversation will be over immediately."

Sarah sank onto the hard-backed chair, more than a little afraid of what he might say.

_You will be dropping Potions, Miss Darkglass._

_This relationship cannot continue._

_You are going to be expelled._

"If this relationship is to continue, certain things must be understood."

_Continue? _Her breath caught in her throat.

His frown deepened, and he snapped, "Of course, your conduct just now suggests that you may not _wish_ it to continue."

To be with him again...the desire in the thought almost made her sight go dark. "I do," she whispered. She forced her eyes to open, struggled to control her breathing. She would have asked, "Do_ you?_" but the very fact that she was here answered that question.

"Your composure in class today was adequate not to arouse suspicion, although perhaps not good enough to deflect it if it already existed. However, if you think you can continue to improve...?"

"Yes," Sarah answered. "It helps to...to know where things stand."

"And where do you think that _is_, I wonder?" he taunted. "I will make one thing very clear, Miss Darkglass: it would be better for you not to...become attached."

Sarah attempted a laugh, but all that came out was a sharp, guttural sound. "No fear of that," she said, trying to be flippant.

He frowned again. "Oh?"

"My mother told me: 'Never give your heart to a Slytherin. He'll hand it back to you on a platter with all the trimmings.'" Sarah was surprised at how bitter her own voice sounded. She hadn't meant it to.

"She wasn't in Slytherin?"

"She was a Hufflepuff," Sarah said, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did. "I'm _not_ my mother."

"We would hardly be faced with the present dilemma if you were. Has it occurred to you yet that it will be very difficult for us to meet?"

"You could keep giving me detention," Sarah suggested, wondering guiltily how many points she might end up costing her House for the sake of this illicit little affair.

"If only it were that easy. But a sudden string of detentions, when you've never been a problem before, would certainly attract Professor McGonagall's attention. And you're too good a student for the only other simple option: no one would believe for a moment that you need remedial Potions."

It took a couple of blinks for her to realize that he had actually complimented her. Emboldened, she offered, "I could...sneak out of the dormitory."

"That would certainly be a very _Gryffindor_ thing to do," he said, far more nastily than she thought was warranted. "And what will you say when you're caught?"

"_If_ I'm caught."

"_When_ you're caught. Unless you happen to own an Invisibility Cloak?"

"No," she admitted. "Do you?"

"No, more's the pity." His eyes seemed to be looking at something far away. "Are you above stealing?"

"Yes." She frowned when he sneered. "I'm sorry, but I _am_ above stealing."

"Too bad, since there's one in the Gryffindor dormitories. There are potions that can confer temporary invisibility," he went on. "Unfortunately, they have some rather nasty side effects."

"I'm sure that I can sneak away," Sarah reinforced her earlier suggestion. "If I cast a silencing charm on my feet, and hide if I hear anyone coming, I also ought to be able to figure out fairly quickly if there's a system to the teachers' rounds, and Mr. Filch's. Of course, _you_ could tell me what the system is."

He eyed her narrowly, as if she had requested the answers so she could cheat on a test. "Never trust people to be where you think they will be. If you start making assumptions, you will start making mistakes."

"What are you saying then? That we _can't_ meet?"

"That is _not_ what I'm saying," Snape snapped. "I'm simply trying to emphasize that it will not be easy. No one solution is adequate. Anytime a pattern is developed, there is a risk that someone will notice it."

"Which means..." Sarah murmured, "...we don't set a pattern," he said at the same time she did. Sarah wasn't sure whether to be amused or horrified that she had spoken over him, but she saw the corners of his mouth twitch and relaxed just a bit.

"So we use a combination of strategies?" Sarah suggested.

"Yes, but even that can create a pattern. This will have to be very much at random."

"But then, how will we know which or when...?" Sarah furrowed her brow. "Owls?"

He shook his head. "There is reason to believe that the Ministry is, shall we say _screening_ the Post, and not just at Hogwarts."

"That's illegal!" Sarah gasped.

"Does that ever stop people from finding a way to get what they want?" he scoffed. She guessed that he wasn't just talking about the Ministry.

"What are you suggesting?" Sarah asked warily.

"Nothing particularly illegal, actually. Here." He handed her two narrow strips of parchment. They were a type of cheap bookmark that Flourish and Blotts carried, printed with assorted line drawings. Most students colored in the drawings to suit their own tastes, but these were still plain. The design on one was a thorny, twining vine with rather feeble-looking blooms; the other was a stylized knotwork depiction of a snake. Sarah looked up, not comprehending what purpose they could serve. Snape smirked. "Come along."

She ducked under the tapestry after him, her innards all aflutter, from top to bottom. It was nearly time for dinner, and Professor Snape's absence would likely be noted by everyone, even if her own was not. No matter how much she wished otherwise, there wasn't possibly time to...

There were two small cauldrons on a worktable near the doorway. The contents smelled, oddly enough, of ink. In front of each cauldron was a quill and a sheet of parchment, on one of which was spread a few strands of dark hair. In the center between the two sheets was a rather odd device for potion-making: a pair of shears.

"There used to be a quaint custom for lovers to give one another a lock of their hair. Lover's Ink is one of the reasons for that custom." Snape picked up the shears. "If I may?"

It felt very odd to have him to cut her hair. He separated out a small section behind her right ear, the brush of his hand sending tingles down her neck. It was done too quickly. The shears snicked and he drew back, a collection of brown filaments lying across his palm. He laid them carefully on the empty parchment.

"How does it work?" Sarah asked. She knew of a variety of potions that used innocuous bits of people, like strands of hair or nail clippings, although their purposes were seldom entirely innocuous.

"There's no time now for long explanations. You will understand as we proceed. Once the final two ingredients are added, the inks will be ready. That one is yours." He pointed to cauldron that had what she could only assume was his hair in front of it. "Lay the bookmarks down. You'll be coloring in the snake with your ink. I'll do the other."

Sarah raised her eyebrows, but arranged the bookmarks appropriately, stationing herself by the parchment that held a dozen fine black strands.

He handed her a long pin. "Three drops of your own blood, then the hair."

_So, more blood magic_. Trying to hide a shudder, she took the pin, and before she could change her mind, she pricked the side of her thumb.

"Deeper than that," he chided, noticing her efforts to milk out even one drop of blood. Three fat drops of his blood had already fallen into the neighboring cauldron.

Grimacing, Sarah jabbed her thumb again. This time the pain was rewarded, and she let three drops fall into the ink. Then, matching his movements, she sprinkled the strands of his hair across the surface, where they instantly dissolved in a hiss of blue-green smoke. Her thumb still tingled.

"Good." He took up a quill, dipped the point in his cauldron, and began marking in the flowers on the viney bookmark with a deep blue ink.

Sarah's ink turned out to be dark green. An appropriate color for the knotted serpent. It took her a little longer, however, to color in the whole design. She whispered an ink-drying charm.

"Now we exchange." Snape took the serpent bookmark and handed her the flowered one. "Watch carefully." He dipped the quill again, wrote _10 p.m._ on the blank sheet of parchment, then passed the serpent bookmark over it. To Sarah's surprise, the words disappeared as thoroughly if they had never been written. "Look at your bookmark."

The change was subtle, given that both inks were dark, but the flowers on her bookmark were now clearly green.

"Pass it over your parchment. Any bit of parchment will do, incidentally."

_10 p.m._ appeared on the sheet in green ink. The flowers were blue once more.

"It will disappear in one minute, so never waste time in reading it. However, the messages should be kept as short as possible. And never carry through with an arrangement without checking your bookmark immediately beforehand. I hope I don't need to warn you never to write or recover a message except in private."

"I understand. It's getting late," Sarah added anxiously. The pangs in her stomach had at least something to do with the approach of mealtime, even if it was primarily nerves. _We're really going to do this_.

"Quite late. Bottle your ink up." He snatched a squat, squarish bottle from a high shelf and put it on the table. "I'll deal with mine and the rest of yours later."

Seven years of practice bottling potion samples made it quick work. The stoppered bottle was nestled snugly in her satchel in less than a minute.

"Take your books back to your room before you come to dinner," Snape instructed while she worked. "It won't do for us to come into the Great Hall together."

"I don't think I can get here by ten," Sarah remarked, slipping the flowered bookmark between the pages of the topmost book in her bag. "I'll have to wait until the common room empties out."

"You thought I meant tonight?"

"Didn't you?"

"And what will you say if you're caught?"

"Unless I'm caught in the dungeons, I'll hardly have difficulty making up an excuse. And if I _am_ caught down here, I can claim that I lost something I needed for my homework, and I thought I might have left it under my desk. I'll be careful."

His black eyes narrowed. "You know that I'll claim to know nothing whatsoever about any of this."

"I know." She lifted her chin a notch.

He seemed to take it as a challenge far different than she had intended. He kissed her.

_Oh my. If only he would... Just a few steps that way. No, there's no time. Damn, I wish..._

Then they were staring at each other, breathless.

"There's no time," she gasped, just as he said, "We can't."

He took his hands off her. "Go. Now."

Sarah fled past the tapestry, out the door. She did not dare to look back.

**

* * *

A/N:** If you ever need to have your finger pricked in the doctor's office for a test, make them use the side of your finger. It makes a _huge_ difference in the amount of pain, I promise. 


	7. Ch 6: Surrender to Your Darkest Dreams

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** If the Potter-verse really belonged to me, do you think I'd be sitting here writing _this?_ Alas, I'm just goofing around, so please don't sue me!

**A/N:** Thanks to all my reviewers! Hearing from you really makes my day. :) This chapter is a little more, well, lemony. Just warning you.

Lady Whitehart and Glolite: Yes, the chapter titles are from _Phantom of the Opera_. Dunno how long I can keep that up, but I'll try. Although one future chapter just _has_ to have a title from a Billy Joel song.

Lucidity: Of course there's hope! (This is in the romance category, after all!) But getting these two to acknowledge that is _not_ going to be easy.

cecelle: Sarah is, in many ways, not a happy girl, although she would deny it.

OH! I finally got my finished pic of Sarah and Severus up on the web. Check out the homepage listed in my profile to see it.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Surrender to Your Darkest Dreams**

Sarah had always spent a lot of her time in the library. It was better than listening to Quidditch strategy and the latest play-by-plays. With a book open in front of her, she became the lone audience for a story that the author was—for a few minutes, at least—telling entirely for her. Even spell books and histories were like listening to her own private lecture. And a lecture was what she needed tonight.

She was a little afraid that what she was looking for was in the restricted section. After all, a seemingly untraceable method of communication was something that any number of students would love to get their hands on. Just the possibilities it opened up for cheating on tests were enough to make it highly sought after, let alone the more romantic applications. There must be some catch to it, and Sarah was determined to find out what it was before she started relying on it.

It might not even be in the restricted section, she thought in despair, but in some moldy old dark magic book in Professor Snape's private collection. She put back _Remedies for Love Potions_ with a sigh, and resumed running her finger slowly down the shelf.

She wouldn't have found it if it had been properly labeled. It was slender volume with a blue cloth cover, wide enough to extend out a little further than most, and without a title on its narrow spine. She pulled it out far enough to see the front cover: _Obscure Seventeenth-Century Potions_. Without much hope, but with something that Snape had said tickling at her brain, she opened it. Unlike many wizarding books—most of which seemed to go by the theory that if you hadn't bothered to read the book well enough to become familiar with it, you had no business trying to look up anything in it—this one actually had a table of contents.

_Petticoat Poofer_

_Cavalier Curl Restorer_

_Lover's Ink_

Sarah took the book to her favorite solitary nook and curled up in a low armchair that looked far more uncomfortable than it was, which was probably the reason no one else ever came looking to sit in it.

_Interesting..._

The chapter explained the theory behind the potion, the blood acting as a medium and the hair acting as a conduit for the magic. But scanning the list of ingredients told her why it had become obscure, even before the text explained it. For one thing, it required vampire dust, which was technically a regulated substance (since a sapient creature, however loathsome, had to die to produce it), and was therefore almost impossible to get except through underground sources. For another thing, like many potions for use in pairs, it would only work if the two people making it had a particular bond, in this case a sexual one. As the book pointed out, the original usage for which it was created—enabling communication between young lovers who had been separated by their cruel and unsympathetic parents—was also a situation which would often preclude being able to elude said overprotective parents long enough to do the dirty deed.

So, nothing particularly terrible, apart from the vampire dust. That and the fact that she had already slept with him. That she was planning to do it again. Tonight.

Sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall at dinner, listening to the chatter of her classmates, while the man she had just been plotting assignations with sat up at the staff table, had brought home to her that he really _was_ still her teacher. Not that she was going to let that fact stop her. But it gave her pause, sent waves of guilt churning through her veins, an uncomfortable chaser for the passion she had felt a few minutes before.

It still had her nerves on edge. It was only 8:30; in half an hour Madam Pince would shoo them all back to their common rooms, and Filch would start stalking the hallways. It was tempting to try to find a hiding place, maybe an empty classroom, so she wouldn't have to wait until the Gryffindor common room emptied so she could sneak out. But that would raise questions about her absence that she had no ready answers for. Better to been seen in Gryffindor Tower, to let it be thought that she was sitting up late studying in the common room.

Gads, it was hard to wait.

She ought to be doing her homework, but somehow she couldn't buckle down to it, not knowing that she would be moving so soon. So she leafed through the book of potions, finding out how to make a substitute for starch that obviated the need for either hoops or infinite layers of petticoats to hold out one's skirts, reading the recipe for a tonic that would let a man who had cut his hair in order to go undetected among Roundheads regrow his lovelocks in less than ten minutes.

When Madam Pince ordered everyone out, Sarah slipped the book back onto the shelf. She wanted to copy out some of it, including the Lover's Ink, but that would have to wait until the end of the year, when there would be no reason to worry about what might be found among her things.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, she made herself do homework. Professor Sinistra was expecting an essay tomorrow, and Sarah had reading to do for Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. She did Umbridge's assignment first, fearing it would put her to sleep if she left it until the end. She kept her Potions reading for last. How had it never made her heart race before to realize that the inner voice in which she heard the words was Professor Snape's?

* * *

She was ready to throttle the Creevey brothers. Their parents had sent them a largish parcel filled with biscuits and sweets, and the two seemed to be determined to eat their way through the whole thing, in preference to dividing it up between them, going back to their own blasted dormitories and saving some for later. It was already after ten, and they prattled on and on, between bites, about the Muggle doings which had filled the apparently voluminous letter that came with the parcel. Sarah was tempted to cast a sleepiness hex on them. In the end, she took the opportunity of a particularly loud giggle to suggest sullenly to them that the hour was rather late and hadn't they better get to bed? Even though she wasn't a prefect, the fact that she was a (clearly irritated) seventh year had enough impact that the two made a hasty accounting of their remaining treats and headed up the boys' stairway. 

As soon as she was sure they weren't coming back down for a forgotten biscuit tin, and after a quick check to make sure the flowers on her bookmark were still blue, she stashed her books in a dark corner behind a fat armchair and slipped out the portrait door. The silencing charm she put on her feet was a bit difficult to get used to; she had never realized how much she relied on sounds she never consciously noticed. But soon she was making her way down the hallway, eyes always in search of a potential hiding place, ears open for any sounds of approach.

She did fine until she got down to the third floor. It was just lucky that she heard Filch grumbling about Dungbombs before Mrs. Norris appeared. Sarah ducked around a corner. She heard the cat yowl twice, closer the second time, and fled along the corridor, taking the first down staircase she found.

She almost met with another mishap on the first floor, this time due to the pounding of her heart in her ears, which almost prevented her from hearing someone's shuffling gait. She ducked into a disused classroom, burying her face in her robes to muffle her panting breath. Ok, she was close to McGonagall's office—that would be a good excuse if she needed one. But the shuffling feet moved past and out of earshot again.

This was worse than she thought it would be, and she began to question the wisdom of even attempting it. Snape had been right—getting caught was when, not if. _Should I go back?_ No, it was further backwards than onwards, now.

The race down the main staircase to the ground floor was horrible, with the expectation of being stopped at any moment by some teacher's voice. But she relaxed a little once she was down the first flight of steps into the dungeons. Of course, the Slytherin common room was somewhere down here. She only hoped that no Slytherins were engaging in out-of-House trysts tonight.

By the time she got to the Potions classroom—without any further panic-inducing incidents—she was feeling moderately pleased with her accomplishment, although she dreaded the trip back more than a little. She wasn't going to think about that just yet. She knocked softly on the door to Snape's office.

No answer.

She waited, remembering how long it had taken last night. Minutes went by with no hint of movement or other sound behind the door.

_Could he be back in the workroom?_ She knocked again, just a bit louder.

Well, he couldn't have gone to sleep this early...could he? Not knowing that she was on her way. Or had he changed his mind after all, and decided to have nothing to do with the little Gryffindor hoyden? Was he back there now, congratulating himself on his escape?

"Getting careless, Miss Darkglass?"

Sarah almost screamed. Not quite. But her heart, at least, had come very close to leaping out of her body. She whirled around, feeling a rush of both anger and relief at the familiar voice.

He was pointing his wand at her.

She froze, a new and colder terror seeping through her.

"If I were a Slytherin student, instead of a teacher, you'd be lying on the floor, hexed within an inch of your life." He lowered his wand.

"If you were a Slytherin student," she retorted, still trembling, "we wouldn't have such a problem. And if _I_ were a Slytherin student, I wouldn't have such a long way to go to get down here."

"If you were a Slytherin student," he said coldly, stalking toward her, "you would not be here, no matter _what_ the temptation." He whispered a few words to the lock, then opened the door to his office. "Get in."

She didn't argue, although his mood was frightening.

"Why weren't you paying better attention?" he challenged her, closing the door behind him.

"Is it likely that I would be noticed in this _closed_ classroom?" she responded. "Standing quietly in front of your door for _ten minutes_, not knowing where you were"

"I was making sure that none of my students were out patrolling the corridors. They don't like their territory being invaded, especially by Gryffindors." His sneer changed to a frown. "You don't have your bookmark with you."

"I checked it before I left."

"Keep it with you _at all times_," he hissed. "Check it at every turn in a corridor."

"I got here without a problem until I got to your door," Sarah said bluntly, then to make her answer sound a tad more civil, tacked on, "Sir."

"I am responsible for a Houseful of students, Miss Darkglass," he returned. "Their problems, their concerns come before yours, or even mine, is that clear?"

Sarah blinked. His aggravating habit of favoring his Slytherins slipped abruptly into a new context. They were _his_ students, his _responsibility_. For a moment she wished that she had not stopped the Sorting Hat from putting her in Slytherin, just for the sake of having that fierce protective mantle wrapped around her as well. On the other hand, she hadn't known at the age of eleven, or even at twelve or fourteen or sixteen, that she would be here now, feeling what was she was feeling, doing what she was doing.

"So _Gryffindors_ are fair game?" she asked, a little tartly. "Am I here because of _Quidditch_ last Saturday, then?"

"That does add something, doesn't it?" he said, bearing down on her like a shadow.

* * *

Sarah was out of sorts on Friday. Snape had sent her off last night with a warning that Professor McGonagall usually made a round of the main corridors a little after midnight and _without_ setting a time for their next meeting. The prospect of not seeing him except at a distance for the entire weekend was maddening, and by the time she had gotten safely back into the Gryffindor common room and retrieved her bookbag, she was frustrated enough to take out her new bottle of ink and scrawl _Detention tomorrow?_ across a scrap of parchment. 

In the morning, Sarah flipped open her Astronomy book (safer, she thought, than her Potions book) and slid the green-flowered bookmark across the margin of the page. All it said was: _No_.

It was fortunate that Potions was the last class of the afternoon. Otherwise she might have behaved so outrageously that Snape would have had no choice except to give her a detention. By the time she was headed down to the dungeons for class, however, she had calmed down enough to take a more calculated view of the situation. She could wait, if she had to. Let _him_ get desperate. She could write _no_ just as easily as he could, next time. Let _him_ stew about that. It was not very difficult in class to pretend that she felt the same vague, generalized and resigned resentment toward the Potions master that everyone else did.

The Astronomy practicum for the two N.E.W.T. levels, normally at 11 o'clock on Friday nights, had been moved up to 9 o'clock because of the moon. All things considered, it was probably a good thing not be showing up to class with her face flushed and her clothes disarranged. That didn't keep her from wishing that she were somewhere else as Professor Sinistra gave a complex assignment to determine, from tonight's observations, what astral influences would be operating in the next month. Shivering in the brisk north wind, in spite of a warming charm, she scanned the sky while she jotted down notes by the dimmest possible light of her wand, then began flipping through her book for the proper charts. The wind tugged the pages from her hand and they fell open at the new bookmark.

Sarah brought the tip of her wand closer to the book. _Green_. She closed it quickly.

"Professor Sinistra," she asked. "May we be excused once we've made our observations. It's awfully cold out tonight, and the wind is blowing my notes and my text so I can hardly keep them still enough to work."

There were murmurs of similar discontent among the other students, and Sinistra finally conceded that they could retreat to the topmost room of the tower to work. But she wanted their assignments turned in before they left for their dormitories.

Sarah beat a hasty retreat down the steps, with her book still in hand, and she managed to read the message before anyone else caught up with her: _Saturday evening after dinner?_

Her heart thudding, she made herself settle her work out around her in a marginally sheltered corner before she would even contemplate her reply.

Of course she would say yes.

_Wait, what about making him desperate?_

Could she put him off until Sunday night? Even Monday?

If she put him off, would he really stew about it? Or would he not care? Or would he just get disgusted with the effort required for the pursuit?

Sarah began working through her charts, forcing her concentration until her mind slipped into its old familiar grooves. She noted the position of the moon at each quarter, the movements of the planets, the notable conjunctions (her quill was less than steady as she described, in the most innocuous possible terms, the significance of Mars overtaking Venus), and (considering that she might need some extra credit once last night's essay had been graded) a list of some basic potions that would benefit or suffer from being prepared under the upcoming influences. She dried the ink, rolled up the parchment, and handed it in to Professor Sinistra, who was just coming downstairs with the last of the shivering students; Sarah's haste earned her a frown from the slender witch. Not caring, Sarah retreated down the long, long stairs of the Astronomy Tower.

The temptation to go to the dungeons now, while she had the chance, was strong but fleeting. She didn't dare intrude without writing a note first, and goodness knows when he might notice it or read it. So she went back to Gryffindor Tower, got ready for bed, pulled the bed hangings closed—the other girls were still in the common room, but Patricia always went to bed early and could come up at any moment—and composed her answer.

* * *

At dinner on Saturday, Katie and Alicia were begging Angelina not to make them go back out to the pitch after they ate. They had apparently already spent two hours out there, and if the quantity of warm drinks they were imbibing was any gauge, they were half-frozen. 

"Ginny doesn't need the practice," Katie averred.

"Well Ron _does_," Angelina answered, as if that were that. When their woeful looks continued, she added, "We don't want to be dead _last_ for the Quidditch Cup. McGonagall already frowns at me every time she passes me in the halls. Please?"

Sarah was as anxious to hear their grumbles of agreement as Angelina was. Three girls out of the dormitory meant three fewer people who might wonder where she had spent the evening. The real problem, of course, would be getting down to the Potions classroom on the weekend without getting stopped by a teacher on the stairs ("Have you forgotten the day, Miss Darkglass?") or attacked by Slytherins in the corridors. When could she...?

How could she have been so stupid? _Now_.

"Ugh. Nothing's agreeing with me tonight," she explained, setting aside her fork and slipping out of her seat. She hoped Snape would see her go, but she didn't even glance his way to find out. Once the big door of the Great Hall had closed behind her, she took a quick look around to be sure no one was on any of the other stairways, then made a mad dash toward the dungeons.

Sarah took more care in the lower hallways than she had last time, even with the silencing charm on her feet. She had slipped her bookmark into a papercovered novel small enough to keep in a pocket of her robes, and she checked it diligently before she went on, although Snape could hardly write secret messages when he was sitting at the staff table.

No one accosted her. Breathless all the same, she shut the door of the Potions classroom silently behind her.

_Now_, she thought, _a little taste of his own potion_. There weren't all that many places to hide: the stores cupboard was too full for a person to squeeze inside, and the equipment cupboard was too daunting—no knowing what might be lurking in the recesses back there. Finally she settled on Professor Snape's desk. The solid front didn't come quite to the floor, but if she didn't sit right against it, no one would be able to distinguish the black edge of a robe from the shadows, especially not from the door, where the student tables would partially block the view of anything beyond them.

_You pop out of here without warning, you're going to be hexed into oblivion_. _No matter how sweet it would be to see him jump the way you did_.

_Okay, so I don't pop out._

_You're going to regret dinner in a bit._

_I won't starve to death before breakfast._

_Your nerves really can't take all this sneaking and hiding indefinitely, you know. You aren't made for this kind of thing._

To that, she had no answer.

Finally she heard cat-quiet steps, the feather-soft opening and closing of the door. All the same, she wanted to make sure it was him before she gave herself away. The steps stopped. "Who," Snape said, in his nastiest voice, "is hiding in my classroom?"

Sarah cleared her throat before she stood up from under the desk.

"Better than standing out in the open, wasn't it?" she whispered, as she saw a look of relief pass over his face. "How did you know someone was here, if you didn't know it was me?"

"I heard you _breathing_." He moved quickly to his office door and unlocked it.

Sarah was taken aback. "I couldn't have been breathing _that_ loudly."

"It doesn't have to be, to hear it down here when no one's about," he said tautly, shutting and relocking the door behind her. He opened the doorway behind the tapestry. She passed through with him at her heels, but at a harshly whispered word, the wall resealed itself behind them.

Why was he being so careful?

_And you don't know the passwords, do you, so you're trapped here until he chooses to let you go._

_Nonsense, there's always the portrait door._

_If it isn't warded somehow._

The doorway between his workroom and his bedroom was sealed up again, just as tightly. Sarah cast an anxious glance at the back of the portrait door.

"Sit down," he ordered. "On the bed."

Sarah sat. She watched him go to the wardrobe, open it, then pull out one of the drawers. He closed it up again carefully and turned. He was holding up a small, elaborately decorated bottle. She felt the bottom drop out of her very empty stomach.

He hadn't kissed her yet. But he handed her the bottle.

"Drink it."

"Poison?" she said, horrified, before she could think better of it.

He drew a sharp breath, then slowly sat down in the armchair and put his feet up on the ottoman, folding his arms across his chest. "And just what sort of poison would I give you?"

Was he tired of her already? How simple a means to at once be rid of her and also secure her eternal silence.

"Well," she said waveringly. She unstoppered the bottle. It smelled of jasmine. She didn't know of any poisons that smelled of jasmine. Then again, she didn't know a tenth of the potions he must know. "I don't recognize it," she admitted.

"Then use what you _do_ know," he cajoled, in that voice that she knew from seven years of classes. _Use your brain, dunderhead!_

"It can't be a slow-acting poison," she decided. "You wouldn't want to give me time to run and tell on you." She turned the bottle between her fingers. "On the other hand, you probably wouldn't want it to act too fast."

"Oh?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, I suppose you'd want time to..." Sarah was appalled at her own nonchalance, at the strange bubble of the black mirth rising up from some unplumbed depth of her soul, "one more time before I died. Unless you're into necrophilia," she added flippantly. The idea of him bonking her corpse was just too mad to imagine, the only drawback being that she would be too dead to appreciate any humor in it.

"Don't tempt me," he snapped. "Drink it or not, as you wish."

Sarah shut her eyes. _It isn't poison. And if it is, well, that would be a fitting way for Julia Darkglass's daughter to go, too_.

She upended the bottle into her mouth.

She sat trembling as the taste overwhelmed her, as if she were being smothered with heavily scented silk. He came and took the bottle from her hand.

"Only a Gryffindor would be stupid enough to drink poison on a dare."

"Only a Slytherin would be horrid enough to ask me to."

"_Evenesco_," he whispered, then set the bottle aside. "You'd better lie down. You may become somewhat dizzy." At another word, all but one of the lamps went out.

_What if it really was poison? _"How long does it take before...?" _Before I start to feel the effects? Before I die?_

"Not long. You should be feeling it begin already." He eased her back against the coverlet. Yes, she could feel it, a subtle warmth stealing through her veins. And strangely, the touch of his hands on her shoulders, even through layers of clothes, was almost like sandpaper.

_Don't. Cry._

He shed his robes before he climbed into the bed. The brush of his fingers as he pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face was ticklish beyond laughter. It wasn't until he kissed her, though, that she realized that, whatever other effects it might have in the end, whatever he had given her was redoubling every sensation she felt.

Sarah had been old enough, before her mother left her father, to notice how she had flinched away from his touch. For a long time, she had thought she understood why. But her experiences of the past few days made her wonder. Her father had never struck her mother, not that Sarah knew of, but now it seemed possible that Malcolm Darkglass might have had other ways of hurting his wife that their daughter could not possibly recognize at the age of nine.

From some instinct of self-protection, Sarah made herself go limp. She had a vague concept of what it meant for a man to be gentle in bed, and she was pretty sure that, thus far, Snape had not been especially, although she had been too engrossed in the novelty of the process to care before now. But if she was going to die like this, she would rather not die in pain.

The effects of simply relaxing her clenched muscles were remarkable. It was as if that alone had changed something about what was happening to her. And now she couldn't think beyond to anything else. "Good girl," Snape whispered against her ear, as she moaned, and not in pain. He slid a hand up under her skirt and stopped.

"You aren't wearing underpants." His eyes went rather wide.

Sarah began to laugh; she couldn't help it. How was _that_ going to be explained when her body was found? Would he have to tip her into the lake? Would she poison the giant squid when it had her for lunch?

"It isn't _that_ funny," he growled, as her giggles reached a hysterical note. He wrenched his trousers open, and after a few awkward moments of positioning, her laughter faded.

_Oh_. It had felt nice before, but this...this...this promised something else. The longer it went on, the more desperate she felt to find out what. She had heard that...

"_No_," she whimpered. He had stopped. Had he...? She didn't think he had... _Not **now**_,her body screamed. She tried to keep up the driving movement, pushing herself against him. If this was the last thing that was going to happen to her before she died...

He pinned her against the bed, stopping her. His breathing was still rough, but the control in his voice was like iron. "In _my_ time, Sarah."

To plead with someone like Snape, who was not known for responding positively to such entreaties, promised fruitless humiliation. But she did not know what else to do. It seemed as if she might die of desire before the poison was ever finished with her. She begged, "_Please_."

She had never heard him laugh before, she realized, no matter how ruthlessly he mocked his students. It was a sound she could not interpret.

"You don't even know yet what is you want, but you'd do anything to get it, wouldn't you?"

Sarah felt tears welling up. _God, don't let me cry!_ She whispered so thinly that the words bore edges, "_What do you want me to do?_"

In the dim light his eyes were almost wholly black. "Touch me," he said hoarsely.

She had never dared to reach out her own hands; it had never seemed a thing he would either invite or suffer. Strange, now that she thought of it. And another, almost wrenching thought: _Did anyone ever touch him?_

Still feeling instinctively that he would knock her hand away, she reached up, past the ticklish ends of his hair on the back of her hand, and laid tentative fingers on the line of his jaw. When he didn't flinch, she followed the jawbone back toward his ear. His skin was ever so slightly rough under her tingling fingertips, as if whatever shaving charm he used was beginning to wear off. Braving a little more, she touched his earlobe, explored the curious curves of his ear.

With a hiss, he tilted his head back. Startled, Sarah drew her hand away.

"Don't stop," he whispered, bending again to kiss her.

She laid her hands on the sides of his face, which somehow intensified her ability to kiss him back. His ears were delicate shell shapes under her fingers. She had never imagined it could feel like this to touch someone. Behind his ears, his hair stood out from the skin, curving over the backs of her hands. With some trepidation, she drove her fingers into the lank black mane that fell around her face.

_Well_.

Most of her father's Muggle tenants had raised sheep for wool. She remembered chasing them as a child, remembered a shearing day, remembered burying her hands in the clean white fleeces, heavy and thick with the oily, waxy lanolin that left her hands so smooth that her mother delighted in stroking them for days. While his hair was not heavy, nor rough and curly like wool, the feeling was otherwise much the same. Curious, but not horrible. When he broke off the kisses and looked down at her, a faint smile bent her trembling lips.

She gasped as he moved against her, suddenly. She didn't realize how much her desire had quieted until it flared up again. If he stopped again, she would scream.

"Once people believed," he hissed between breaths, "that to lie with someone...was like a little death. Maybe...you can make...the comparison ...for yourself."

She felt so very, quiveringly strange, all through her veins. Had she made a mistake about the poison, then? Was it the same mistake her mother had made, trusting one of them just foolishly enough to be betrayed? _I chose this!_ she insisted. _I knew I might be wrong. Just don't let me die before I find out what..._

_...**what?**..._

The comparison, it seemed, was apt indeed. Sarah was not sure that she was not dying after all. If this was pleasure, as it somehow seemed to be, it was frighteningly beyond the borders of anything that word could convey. Her heart was surging as if it were making a final struggle to survive. Everything was surging. She was dimly aware of the intense pressure of his body against her, of sounds that might have come from his throat. She only realized that she was not dead yet when she found that her body was back within realms she could understand. Her heart beat down and down, into the very depths of her abdomen, then slowly subsided.

"Oh," she gasped shortly. "Oh."

It was only a few moments before rolled off her. Scarcely able to endure it, she turned into him, burying her face against his chest. After a time, her breathing quieted. She did not feel at all now as if she were going to die.

**

* * *

A/N:** The astronomy information is actually genuine for November 1995. 


	8. Ch 7: Then My World Was Shattered

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Everything you recognize (with the possible exception of the paintings), belongs to JKR. The rest is just my embroidery.

**A/N:** I love these guessing games! So far no one has guessed the right Billy Joel song, though. Here's another puzzler for anyone who cares to take it on. The two paintings that appear in this chapter are based on real Muggle art, by two famous Muggle artists. Can anyone identify the sources of my inspiration for them?

Lady Whitehart: Actually, Umbridge inspected Snape before Halloween. But don't forget that we have Harry's Occlumency lessons still ahead of us! -_Verity chuckles evilly-_

cecelle: I hope the changes I've made to this since you beta'd it have fixed the problem you noted. Thank you so much for your help!

lucidity: I'm trying to update every few days. It's wonderful to have readers anxious for the next installment!

**

* * *

Chapter 7: Then My World Was Shattered**

"Sarah?" Someone was shaking her. "You can't sleep here, Sarah."

Her eyelids were so heavy. But consciousness began filtering through the confusion of sleep. Professor Snape's voice.

She opened her eyes with a jolt. He was still lying next to her, leaning on his elbow, jostling her by the arm. His brow was furrowed, and his mouth bent just short of a frown.

"Oh..." she groaned, rolling over onto her back. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. Sand. Ouch. But...no, it was some remaining trace of that heightened sensation, she realized. Memories of what had happened flooded through her.

She was still alive, though she had no right whatsoever to be.

It _was_ like dying. Dying and waking up as someone else. Where was Sarah? She turned her head toward him. It was mad to look for answers there, but she was low on other solid frames of reference at the moment.

A shadow caught her eye. Just a shadow under the folds of his sleeve, where it had been pulled up taut by the pressure of his elbow against the bed. A shadow that suggested... The trickle of ice along her spine brought her fully awake, although she wasn't moving, wasn't breathing.

He sat up, and the shadow was gone, if it had ever been anything more than a trick of the light. "You've got to get back to your dormitory," he urged. "It's almost nine o'clock."

"What!" Sarah snapped upright herself. How could it have gotten so late? Had she drowsed _that_ long? She slid hurriedly off the bed and began trying to rearrange herself. _I'm going to have to look up a charm for this_. "How am I going to get upstairs?" she asked, in sudden despair. She had just realized that with curfew coming, Slytherins would be roaming down the dungeon corridors on their way to their common room.

"There's another stairway. It only comes out on the first floor." He approached the back of the portrait door. With a whispered word, he lifted whatever safeguards he had placed on it. "Quickly!"

The door swung open to reveal a dimly lit, narrow passage; it was difficult to see more than a dozen feet in either direction. "The main corridor is that way." He pointed to the left, then guided her to the right. "The stairway is the second opening on the right-hand side. Don't move an inch until you hear my voice, and don't light up your wand until you start up the stairs." He closed the portrait door, with her very firmly outside it.

Sarah found herself involuntarily shrinking back against the opposite wall, although the passage was so narrow it didn't help much. The painting—no better for being so dimly lit—depicted a skeletal figure with a scythe sitting atop a full moon. Its tattered robes flowed in an unseen wind, and it swung the scythe menacingly, while a dark bird flew in and out of the moonlight.

Sarah shut her eyes, mindful of the hazards of failing to be alert, but unwilling to be forced to examine the painting for however long it took Snape to get out through the Potions classroom door. What she saw against her eyelids was not much of an improvement. _Had_ that been a Dark Mark on his arm? That would hardly be a surprise, would it? Fate seemed to be running true to course. And there had always been rumors about the former sympathies of the Potions master. It had never been worth worrying about before; all she knew was that he had not been a part of the Darkglass family's rather sinister social circle. But he had as much as admitted, hadn't he, that there were darker things in his past than terrorizing his students? Still, to have gone that far... Sarah knew all too well just how little things really changed, no matter what people pretended in public.

_He said that Dumbledore knew_. Sarah had only met the headmaster twice, but he impressed her as the sort of person it would be very hard to keep secrets from. It didn't matter anyway, did it? This couldn't go on forever. Wouldn't, anyway. Did it matter how thin the ice was if you were skating so close to the shore?

Echoing down from the main corridor, she heard a boy calling out, "Professor!" and then, "What is it, Mr. Grint?" That was it then. Sarah slipped along the corridor, with her hand against the right-hand wall. First opening. Second. The blackness was deep enough here that the edge of the first step was barely a shadow. The stairwell itself was pitch dark. Sarah took the first dim step, to get out of any line of sight down the corridor, then whispered, "_Lumos_."

The stairs wound up and up, a long way, it seemed. Then, just as it seemed there would be another turning, the way came out on a landing that seemed to be nothing more than a cul-de-sac. Sarah pushed on each of the walls in turn. The right-hand wall slid soundlessly outward. Alarmed that someone might notice anyway, Sarah slipped quickly outside and pushed the stone door shut.

She was in an alcove behind one of the castle's many suits of armor. A peek out into the corridor was not very helpful in orienting herself. So she took quick note of the armor's design, and of the painting across the way (a pair of girls in bright dresses sharing a picnic), and headed down the passage toward what she hoped was an intersection.

Fortunately, it was. Even more fortunately, she recognized where she was—near the History of Magic classroom on the first floor. Feeling for the first time in all her recent adventures as if she were _not_ about to be caught where she didn't belong, she made her way up to the Gryffindor common room, coming through the Fat Lady's portrait door with a large group of other students returning from whatever Saturday evening activities they had been engaged in. In no mood to chat, even assuming someone would bother to include her in their conversation, Sarah hurried up to her room.

Katie and Alicia lay sprawled on their beds, groaning, still wearing Quidditch robes. Angelina came out of the bathroom they shared with the sixth year girls with a towel wrapped around her and another one in her hand, with which she was patting her hair.

"You'll feel better if you shower _now_," Angelina said, "before your muscles freeze up."

"Mine are already frozen," Katie grimaced. But she rolled off the bed and tugged on Alicia's shoe. "Come on."

Alicia made more of a fuss, but followed in Katie's wake, making painful noises that were obviously aimed at the unbelievably cruel captain of the Gryffindor team.

Sarah shook off her robes, wondering if she should shower as well. Inexplicably, she didn't want to. She smoothed one hand over the fingers of the other. _No, not tonight_. Moving around to the other side of her bed, so Angelina wouldn't notice certain improprieties while she was changing, she shed her clothes and quickly donned her nightgown.

"So, you've loosened up a bit, Sarah," Angelina commented.

"_What?_" Sarah popped her head around the bed curtains. The other girl had talked more to her in the past week, since the Quidditch disaster, than probably she had in the month before that. But none of it had run into personal comments.

"Just, you've always been so strait-laced." Angelina shrugged. She was sitting on her bed in the red satin pajamas she favored, with her feet tucked up under her.

"And?" Sarah asked uneasily.

The other girl lowered her voice, "Well, I mean, you come back here twice this week smelling like sex..." She grinned conspiratorially. "Who did you get to notice you?"

_I really am going to die_, Sarah thought, breathless, wondering at the same time how Angelina could recognize the scent that suddenly seemed very strong in her own nostrils.

"Come on...who is it?" Angelina's grin was disturbingly infectious.

"_Oh_ no." Sarah shook her head, her heart pounding loudly enough for her dorm mate to hear it. "I'm not saying a word."

"Sarah!"

"_No_." Then, worrying that Angelina would keep at her until she revealed _something_, she took the initiative herself. "Look, he'd kill me if I told anyone he had a Gryffindor girlfriend, ok?"

"Oooo! A _Slytherin_?" Angelina jumped quickly to the obvious conclusion. _Damn_.

"I didn't say that. He could be in Ravenclaw for all I'm going to tell you."

"Which of those big brutes...? Unless... Oh, babe, you better watch out for Olive Barnley if you're shagging her boyfriend."

"I _didn't_ say he was in Slytherin," Sarah's voice tightened. "Please, _please_, Angelina, don't even _hint_ that to anyone. You know how rumors spread. And if someone, somehow said something to the wrong person and it got back to my aunt..." She sounded desperate. She was glad she did, even if was 99 genuine. Angelina's smile softened.

"Okay, okay, your secret's safe with me." The girl reached out a warm, brown hand across the space between their beds and squeezed Sarah's ice-cold fingers. "Wizard's oath, I won't say a word. But you'd better shower before you come back next time, or someone else _will_ notice. And if Patricia hears about it, well, you're gonna be sitting in McGonagall's office hearing about what we can and can't do at school."

Sarah was oddly touched at the other girl's ready loyalty. But it hurt, too, that she had never been the object of it before. And if the only thing that prompted it now was the discovery of a mutual knowledge about carnal pursuits...

Sarah hoped that the smile of gratitude she gave was not too cold.

"Hey," Angelina said. "If you ever need a good place to...you know...there's this room off the seventh floor corridor, across from that tapestry of the troll ballet."

"Okay," Sarah said, getting into bed. "Thanks."

"Sure."

Then... "So, um..." She felt as if she owed Angelina something. "How was Quidditch practice?"

She settled back and gritted her teeth, preparing to listen for as long as it took.

* * *

Whether it was the near-miss with Angelina or one of the other things that had encroached upon either her consciousness or her conscience, Sarah became a good deal more circumspect after that night. She had been acting far too oddly, far too much in a hurry, far too distracted by her secret double-life. She felt as if she had been in a trance—it was fortunate beyond her deserving that no one else had noticed it. So, there were no more mad dashes to decode or answer his notes, no more intense desperation to see him. He wasn't going to vanish from Hogwarts and neither was she. There was time enough. 

If the truth were admitted, as much as she wanted to see him, she was a little afraid to go back. Perhaps it was her own mistake to jump to the conclusion that the contents of that vial had been poison, but he had certainly been willing to perpetuate the fear stirred up by that possibility. And as...well, _amazing_...as the end result had been, she didn't earnestly believe that it had been the result of some charitable impulse on his part. For whatever unfathomably male or unpleasantly Slytherin reason, it had suited him to give her that experience. She would have kept on returning to him regardless for quite some time, she had no doubt, but maybe he didn't know that. Or maybe it was part of some plan to corrupt her as much as possible, which offered disturbing possibilities for the future. In any event, although she still wanted to be with him, there was, curiously enough, _less_ desperation.

It was Sunday night before she had occasion to slide her bookmark across the page margin. _Detention Monday_, it said.

Sarah picked up her quill. All the time it moved across the page, she bit her lip. She slid the message on its way before she could think too much about what she had written:

_I don't know_.

* * *

It was another healing potion on Monday; they seemed to be doing a lot of those. Potions to heal burns, potions to mend broken bones, potions to put your insides back in the right order if you'd been hit with a spell that disarranged them. Today was Eyebright Potion, which would cure blindness brought on by any intense form of light. 

Sarah was nervous. It was impossible to tell how he had taken her answer. He was his usual unpleasant self, which could mean anything—that he was angry at her hesitation, that he was dismissing her for being difficult—or nothing at all. For the first time she appreciated how those poor students who had absolutely no knack for potions must have felt for five miserable years, sitting here wondering when, not if, she would lose points for her House. Wondering if she would be getting a detention whether she wanted one or not.

She simply couldn't concentrate. She had to mend her mistakes twice, and as she narrowly avoided a third, remembering just in time that she needed to stir clockwise for five minutes before she added the rowan sap syrup, she jumped at the voice behind her ear.

"Have you forgotten something?"

The bottle of rowan sap syrup rattled out of her fingers. It was, oddly enough, entirely an accident, although she doubted it would look that way to him. She couldn't catch it in time. The glass shattered stickily on the floor.

"Really, Miss Darkglass," Professor Snape said, stalking around the other side of the desk. "Twice in less than a week. Are you sure you haven't been struck with a clumsiness curse?"

As was only to be expected, the Slytherins laughed. A few other people did too. Snape turned and stalked toward the front of the classroom, preparatory, she was certain, to announcing her punishment. Well, she was not about to stay after class again, no matter what. For one thing, it would look far too suspicious. "_Evanesco_," Sarah murmured, flicking her wand at the mess, which vanished, glass and all. Snape spun around to glare at her. The room grew very quiet.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor!" he snapped. Sarah winced, although she didn't know how she could have avoided losing points one way or another. But he wasn't finished. "And since you're clearly so much better at _wand-waving_ than at concentrating on your work, you will be required, in future, to cast Unbreakable Charms on all your containers."

There were a few gasps at that. Charming the glass would spoil some potions ingredients and make others completely unpredictable. More to the point, it would mean receiving failing grades on every potion she attempted until such time, if any, that he relented. It also meant that, despite her equivocal answer, he intended to push her into doing or saying something that would, indeed, merit a detention.

"Ah, well." Sarah gave what was very obviously a mock sigh. Something troubling about herself had become clear over the past week: she was far better able to cope with a situation once she had run out of options. She lifted her wand again as if to comply with his instructions. "I suppose that a broken beaker _is_ worse than an _exploded_ _classroom_."

The room was so silent now that it was possible to hear individual bubbles popping in the boiling cauldrons.

"_Is that a threat, Miss Darkglass?_"

"No, sir," she answered, meeting his eyes defiantly at last. "Just an observation."

For a moment, there was something about his expression that suggested he would be well justified in pointing at the door and ordering her to leave the N.E.W.T. class, permanently. But he said, "Let's see what observations you make about _a week's detention_." There were a few sympathetic squeaks from around the room. "Perhaps washing out every beaker in the equipment cupboard will cure your clumsiness sufficiently for you to be able to forego taking any risk of _explosions_."

Sarah shut her eyes, trying to school her face to prevent her relief from showing. He wasn't going to make her charm her glassware. Whether she would actually be washing beakers or not was another question.

* * *

At the end of class, he set the time for her first day of detention: seven o'clock. Sarah wondered what would happen if she failed to show up. Would this become optional, too? Or had it gone beyond that? 

"Whassup?" Katie asked as she sat down to supper, observing the frowning faces of her dorm mates.

"I guess the git's got it in for Sarah this year," Angelina explained. "Detention all week."

Sarah cast a glance toward the staff table. Under the circumstances, it seemed justifiable. "I _hate_ him," she whispered vehemently. She was only half sure that the words were a diversion, rather than the truth.

The Weasley twins valiantly offered to sell her one of their Skiving Snackboxes—at a nice discount, they assured her. She wondered what Snape would say if he knew the uses to which they were putting the knowledge gained in his classes. She begged off, pointing out that in the absence of the distraction of a class to teach, he might find her sudden and convenient illness suspicious enough to investigate, an investigation that might lead back to them.

"Got to admit," said Fred (or was it George?), "getting expelled would be very bad for business."

"Not that it mightn't be good in other ways," said the other one.

"On the other hand, Mum would kill us."

"Oh, well."

* * *

Sarah made a point of doing her homework immediately after dinner. It was like a race with the hands of the clock. It was a quarter to seven; in fifteen minutes she would turn into a pumpkin. 

The Potions classroom clock was striking the hour when she knocked on Professor Snape's office door.

"Come in."

As she stepped inside and shut the door, Sarah realized that she was more frightened than she had been last Wednesday night. Feeling oddly mesmerized, she watched him stand up and cross the room. She didn't resist when he lifted her chin, when he kissed her. It was the narrowing of his eyes, the crease of a frown between his eyebrows that broke the spell.

"If you'd rather wash beakers?" he said sharply.

"No." She shook her head, wishing that her answer was as simple as wanting to avoid several hours with her hands in soapy water.

"Go in," he ordered, stepping back.

On the assumption that the doorway must be open, Sarah drew back the corner of the unicorn tapestry and passed through into his workroom. She didn't stop until she had gone through the other doorway, until she reached his bed, where she sat down and pulled her feet up onto the coverlet, her arms locked around her knees.

He came in after her. Studying her, still with a frown on his face, he clenched the bedpost with one hand. "Tell me something, Sarah."

"What?"

"Why did you drink that potion? And don't tell me it was because you're a Gryffindor."

If not the last thing she expected, it was certainly not among the questions she might have predicted.

"I..." She hesitated. "Why do you want to know?"

"You believed it to be poison, and yet you drank it."

Sarah took a deep breath. "I didn't think it was poison."

"Don't lie to me. You knew it might be."

"I...I guessed that it wasn't."

"You knew perfectly well that you might have guessed wrong."

"And?" Sarah challenged, not knowing how to defend her actions further. "The risk was mine to take. What does it matter to you?"

"It matters," he said pointedly, "because I have absolutely no intention of coddling a suicidal child."

"I am not suicidal!" Sarah retorted. "And I haven't considered myself a child for a very long time."

"Your views of your own maturity are of no consequence to me," he snapped. "However, I have no wish to be implicated in an investigation of your death, particularly should you be found with a bottle of something deadly in your hand, or worse yet, a despairing note that features my name in it."

Sarah blinked. "I would hardly kill myself for _your_ sake." Not terribly kind, she realized in retrospect, but true. "I am _not_ my mother."

"You've mentioned that before, as I recall. I fail to see what any maternal resemblances have to do with the issue."

Sarah stared at him. He didn't know. Somehow, he didn't know. She had never imagined that. "You don't know about my parents?" she asked, still disbelieving.

"Is there something to know?" he inquired impatiently. "Your father was in Slytherin; he was therefore suspected, quite _naturally_," he said this with heavy sarcasm, "of supporting the Dark Lord. The details of the outcome of his trial elude me at the moment. Your mother, you told me, was in Hufflepuff. Somehow they managed to produce a daughter who got herself sorted into Gryffindor."

Sarah felt this last statement as a jab, innocuous as it was on the surface compared to the other things he had implied so far. "My father got off, to begin with, like almost everyone else. _Imperius_ defense. It wasn't true, of course. He was a Death Eater." The Potions master flinched slightly when she said it, for whatever reason. "It wasn't a secret, not at home. Not from my mother." Sarah let her eyes drop, unable to say the rest otherwise. "She left him finally, when I was nine. To protect me, she said. Then...it was just a few months later that the Aurors went after my father, on new evidence."

Needing to know how he would take that, Sarah looked up. Something like the beginning of comprehension was dawning in his eyes.

"Azkaban," he said, but uncertainly, still seeming not to remember.

Sarah shook her head. "They didn't take him alive. And..." She buried her forehead for a moment against her knees. "...my mother killed herself, a month after I came to Hogwarts."

Snape released the bedpost. As if the memory had been buried under a mass of rubble, he said distantly, "That was..._ You_ were that student."

"I know why people don't remember." She shrugged. "I was only out of school for the weekend. My aunt took me home for the funeral, but she thought I would get over it more quickly if I kept to my schedule."

His eyes seemed to be searching internally for something more. Finally he said, "You only missed _one_ assignment."

Sarah raised her chin, willing her eyes to be hard. "There wasn't anything else I could do, was there?"

His expression was just as cold as her own. "No. There wasn't." Then, slowly, "She chose poison?"

Sarah spied a fleck of dirt under her thumbnail; she dug it out. "I saw the note," she said. "Not my mother's note. She didn't leave one. At least not one that my aunt ever told me about. It was my father's note. To her. The last one. I took it from his owl, but there wasn't anything in the parcel for me. Just the vial and the note." Oh, yes, she remembered the words, as if they had been branded onto her brain. But although they were burning her up inside with the need to speak them aloud to someone, anyone, to shatter their cruelty by bringing them into the light, she couldn't do it. She couldn't repeat them. Least of all to this man, who was already far too cruel in his own right.

"_Damn_." He buried his fingers in her hair.

She didn't cry. She wouldn't. But it wasn't until he tipped her face back and kissed her lips that the shaking tension left her muscles. This was why she came back, she realized, why she had chosen to stay to begin with. No matter what a moment with him might be like, for as long as it lasted, her life was _only_ that moment. There was no past. And no future.

**

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A/N:** Again, if you haven't seen my pic of Sarah and Severus, check out my homepage on my profile. 


	9. Ch 8: He's With Me, Even Now

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Yada, yada, you know the drill.

**A/N: **Thanks to the loyal cecelle, lucidity and Lady Whitehart for your continuing kind reviews! BTW, _Phantom_ fans may find this chapter's title a little more sinister than it appears to be at first glance.

Lady Whitehart and cecelle: Nope, guess again! (Although I'm thinking that if anyone guesses it, it will be purely by accident.)

lucidity: Yes, at some point we will find out the contents of the note. I had another look re: your comment about her father, and it isn't as clear as I thought it was that he _didn't_ kill himself. He was killed by the Aurors, resisting arrest.

* * *

**Chapter 8: He's With Me, Even Now**

At the end of the week, Sarah had come to a conclusion: she was not going to get a detention again, not if she could help it. The fact that her presence was _required_ had produced an unpleasant edge on his attitude toward her. Nothing unbearable. Just that...he seemed more inclined to remind her in subtle ways that he was, indeed, in a position of power over her. It made for an interesting game, but there were frightening hints at times that he did not consider it merely a game. As much as was possible—and she knew that might be very little—she would rather play on her own terms.

On Sunday afternoon, although she hadn't heard from him all weekend, Sarah decided to try to find some alternative solution. There was the room Angelina had mentioned, and although it seemed highly doubtful that she could convince him to meet her anywhere except in his chambers, she could point out one thing: as a teacher, he had greater freedom to go wherever he pleased at whatever hour he chose. It was better than the risk of her being caught outside his door after curfew.

The section of the seventh floor corridor that Angelina had been talking about was, when Sarah went to investigate, bare of any doorways. She studied the nearby window, checking to see whether it was real or a disguised enchanted door. A blast of frigid air when she opened it proved it to be real, and she latched it again hastily. A huge vase at the other end of the section did not seem to be hiding anything either. Sarah paced in front of the blank wall, disgruntled; she had really been hoping to find a way to meet him without that peril-fraught trip to the dungeons. For one last good measure, she twitched up the corner of Barnabus the Barmy's tapestry. Nothing. Angelina must have been having her on. Not what she would have expected of her dorm mate, really.

Sarah turned around and there it was—a well-polished door with a bright brass handle. After looking both ways down the corridor, she reached out, pushed down the handle, and pulled it open.

She wasn't quite sure what she had been expecting. A storeroom maybe, piled with heaps of moth-eaten blankets or curtains, suitable only for rather desperate students; at best she had thought it might be a little-used guest chamber or an abandoned suite of rooms. Instead she found herself looking in on the top landing of a narrow staircase leading down. Torches burned brightly, far into the depths, beckoning her.

While she had never heard of the castle actually devouring anyone, the sudden appearance of an all-too-friendly doorway that led into something that greatly resembled a stone gullet gave her pause. Knowing that she risked discovery more every moment she stood here peering in, she took out her wand. Then she stepped onto the landing and pulled the door closed behind her.

The torches did not go out. Sarah began descending, step by gingerly step. None of them collapsed. There were no landings to count floors by, however, and the way grew longer and longer and longer. It was only the irrational hope that somehow this staircase would take her where she needed to go that gave her the courage to keep walking down, down, down.

At last a landing appeared, just beyond the final torch. The steps turned to the right after the landing and went on descending, this time into utter darkness. There was no other option, however, than to follow.

_Or was there?_

Sarah pushed against the far wall of the landing. As she had half-guessed, half-hoped, she found herself looking at the back of a suit of armor; the picnicking young ladies were chatting merrily in the painting across the way, having been joined by a couple of other portrait girls. This was the first floor side corridor. Which meant that Snape's bedroom door was just beyond the bottom of the unlighted steps.

Sarah had to use her wand to shut the stone door from the inside. She leaned back against the one solid wall. "If I go down there," she whispered aloud, "will I be able to get back up these stairs?"

To her alarm, the wall that used to stand where the stairs now ascended shimmered back into being. "I guess not!" she sniped at it. Suddenly, the wall spat out a tiny gold key, which tinkled to the floor at her feet. "Oh..." She picked it up. "Um...thanks?" But since she had no intention whatever of surprising Snape with a visit, she began immediately looking for the keyhole. Was that it? That little space between the stone blocks? It seemed less like a keyhole than a notch in the mortar, but it was somewhere near where the key had fallen from. She pressed the key into the space. Promptly, the wall ate it, then shimmered away into a staircase. "You dear, dear castle," she said. Feeling lighter than she had in days, she started up the stairs, two at a time.

* * *

Closed inside the curtains of her bed, with all her dorm mates either absorbed in their own pursuits or out in the common room, Sarah wrote in green ink: 

_I have a safe way down. However, the back door (portrait) would be safer. When?_

The words disappeared under the bookmark. It was less than a minute later, when she had just finished corking her ink bottle, she noticed that the flowers had shifted from blue to green.

_Tuesday night. I'll give an exact time later. Did you steal it?_

Sarah restrained a laugh. She opened her ink again.

_No_. She wondered who it was in Gryffindor that had an Invisibility Cloak, and just how Snape knew about it. _Can I have the password?_

The flowers stayed blue. Unless something had called his attention away abruptly, he must have gotten the message. She grimaced. It had probably been a mistake to add that last part. It was just that standing in that hallway again, in front of that horrible picture, waiting for him to open the door...

Sarah put away her ink and settled down to read. She was behind in every subject, thanks to last week. She could fake Herbology and Astronomy if she had to, but Umbridge wanted a detailed essay on Tuesday, and there was no way she could write that without reading what old Slinkhard had to say about the morals of using wards.

She was tucking her precious bookmark after the last page of the chapter, trying to compose in her mind the beginnings of the necessary drivel, when she saw the flowers change color, the green bleeding up through the blue, overwhelming it. She laid the bookmark against the wide bottom margin and slid it down. There was only one word:

_Nevermore_.

Was that his answer? Or the password?

Sarah closed the book. With a sigh, she turned over and stared up at the canopy.

* * *

When she had received no further messages by Tuesday noon, Sarah was beginning to think that, contrary to anything that seemed reasonable, he really had meant she would never be seeing him again. Except in class, of course. And how long would that last? He still could dismiss her. What would she have then? 

Well, she could still study on her own. And Professor McGonagall would surely see to it that she was allowed to take the Potions N.E.W.T., even if she had left the class earlier in the year. Aunt Portia might even arrange for private tutoring; she would take personal offense at her niece's expulsion, considering that the teacher in question was head of Slytherin. Provided, of course, that Sarah could prevent any confrontations that might allow Snape to twist the truth against her. She wouldn't do as well on the N.E.W.T., she was sure, but at least she might pass. And she could still manage to get an apprenticeship somewhere, even if not as good.

Unless, of course, Snape decided to make a special point of making her life miserable. She hadn't done anything to deserve that. But that didn't necessarily mean anything, not where he was concerned.

It was with what seemed to her inordinate relief that she opened her book to do homework on Tuesday afternoon and found green flowers.

His note was short and to the point:_ 10 pm._

She debated answering. He knew perfectly well that sneaking out after curfew meant waiting until she had a chance. Finally she wrote: _If can get away by then_. Let him wonder what that meant.

* * *

Sneaking to the seventh floor corridor was not utterly without hazard. But she kept a note to her aunt in her pocket, as an excuse that she was going to the Owlery to send it. Duplicating whatever she had done to get the door to appear was a little more difficult. The trick was obviously not in lifting the tapestry. It was only as she paced back and forth, wondering what she would do if she had to get down to the first floor by regular means, and whether she would be able to open the stairs behind the armor from the outside, that she noticed that the door had appeared. 

Her own secret passageway. Well, no, not exactly. Based on what Angelina had said, this door led to wherever a person needed it to. It was worrisome, if she thought about it too much. Surely the castle itself could not approve of what she was doing, even if it allowed for student pairings generally. The amorality of such magic was a good deal more questionable than Slinkhard's stupid wards.

With her wand lit and the golden key tucked away, she made her way down to the hideous picture. The dark bird, which in profile was clearly a raven, had landed on the skeleton's shoulder but took off again with a muffled squawk when it saw her.

It was worth a try.

"Nevermore," she whispered.

The frame swung open.

* * *

"I don't like this," Snape said, as she lay curled next to him later. "Leaving the wards off the door." 

"I could just not come," Sarah answered.

He growled, "If that's what you choose."

"If my going around to your office is worth the risk to you..."

"It's worth the risk," he answered abruptly, surprising her.

"What..." She hesitated, pressing her forehead against his arm. "What are you afraid of?"

She more than half expected him to snap at her, but his answer, though firm, was almost distant. "Nothing I am going to tell you about."

Sarah could not say whether she was more emboldened by the composure of his response or by a creeping suspicion that bloomed suddenly into a need to know for certain. She let her hand slip to the bottom of his sleeve. He had never taken off his shirt with her. Before he could realize what she was about, before she could think better of it, she snagged a finger under the edge of the cloth and pulled it up.

Faint on his skin was a familiar tangle of lines, a shape she knew.

His right hand flew around, locking around her fingers in a grasp so tight that she gasped in pain. He turned over slowly, his eyes as hard and sharp as chips of obsidian.

"Why," his harsh whisper was like tongues of fire, shards of ice, "do Gryffindors find it necessary to pry into things that are _better left alone?_"

Sarah levered herself up, trying to ease her hand out of his grip. "It isn't as if I've never seen a Dark Mark before," she said, with a hint of desperation. "I told you, my father was a Death Eater. You must have known him."

He let her hand slip away. "Only the Dark Lord knew all of his Death Eaters." He sat up and re-arranged his sleeve. "Malcolm Darkglass must have been in his sixth or seventh year when I came to school. I didn't know him well then, and I never had contact with him afterward, not that I knew of." The anger was slowly fading from his voice. Instead it took on a hint of disgust. "He showed the Mark to his _child?_"

Sarah cradled her aching hand against her arm, huddled over her knees. "When I was very small," she murmured, "he used to set me on his lap and let me trace all those curvy lines. Almost the first thing I ever remember, I suppose." She sighed. "I doubt it was out of any degree of affection. He did it to frighten my mother. To hurt her. She would snatch me up and whisper countercharms over me while he laughed. She was always trying to protect me from his influence with charms. I always thought they must have worked. But then," she said with sudden bitterness, "I'm here, aren't I?"

He blinked.

"What?" she asked, puzzled by the sudden blank look.

"Just...a thought." He snatched up his wand. "_Reveal to me incantatum minimum!_"

"What..."

"Shhh," he hissed, studying her with narrowed eyes. He reached out a hand to touch her forehead. Finally he lowered his wand. "Fascinating."

"_What?_" she insisted.

"What has Professor Flitwick taught you about layering charms upon charms?"

Now Sarah blinked. "That the results can be unpredictable."

"You have around you," Snape said, "a curious layer of protection. Nothing obvious or powerful. Almost the opposite, in fact."

"Because of my mother's charms?" she asked, incredulous. Charms shouldn't last that long.

"One can only assume so. More to the point, however, it is not protecting you from _me_."

The words sent a shiver through her. "What does _that_ mean?"

He stood up without answering and began pacing the room. Finally he stopped. He was not looking at her. "Something peculiar happened after Halloween," he said tightly. "It was almost as if I had never seen you before that night, as if I had no prior sense of who you were. Not literally. On some higher level of thought it was obvious that you were Miss Darkglass, my student for the past seven years. But at a more basic level...no." He passed a hand over his face. "And there's the other matter. Forgetting something so entirely out of the ordinary as your mother's death should have been impossible, particularly since I now recall that the headmaster had a meeting with the staff about it at the time. Yet you say that _no one_ remembers."

Sarah stared at him. He was tugging the corner out from under assumptions that she had never questioned.

"I can only guess," he went on, "that the end result, whatever your mother intended, has been to make you seem completely, almost invisibly common. Any attention that is drawn to you tends to pass quickly, as soon as the reason for it is no longer in evidence."

This curious supposition tallied far, far too well with her own experiences. "Then why aren't you...?"

"Affected any longer? An excellent question." He traced his lips with his finger. "You were brought to someone's attention on Halloween night. Someone who would have killed you, although he would have forgotten afterwards just whom he had bothered to kill. But that didn't happen, in part..."

"Because of you," she finished.

"Because of me." He sneered. "So, Miss Darkglass, had I been featuring in your daydreams even before that night?"

Sarah looked at him with cold eyes; her face felt as featureless as a mask. "I never gave you a thought before then."

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Really?"

"Are you saying that this _is_ my fault?" she snapped.

"Oh, yes," he said, but his voice dripped sarcasm. "I'm quite sure you spent _months_ arranging a way to put yourself in mortal peril in my presence."

"What do you mean?" she returned, not entirely sure that he wasn't accusing her.

"It seems apparent that somehow the danger to you affected the residual spell. It—or you," he added, his eyes still clouded with a hint of suspicion, "although it's hardly likely that you would have that much conscious control over the spell—decided that it was in your best interests if I were no longer excluded."

"I never decided that." Sarah gaped, overwhelmed at the combination of his accusations and these new particulars about herself. "I didn't even know about it."

"No," he said, in sharp dismissal. "Nevertheless... How perfectly ironic. Your mother's efforts have, contrarily, managed to expose you to the very sort of person she was trying to protect you from."

Sarah felt a sudden heat in her eyes, like tears ready to start, as the reality of this statement struck her. This was surely the last thing her mother would have ever wanted. "Someone like my father," she murmured, still in shock.

Snape snorted. "What, that's never occurred to you before now? I don't remind you of him?" His face twisted unpleasantly. "I suppose a high-minded Gryffindor would _never_ engage in that particular form of perversion?"

All Sarah's puzzlement and guilt dissolved into rage. "That's not what attracted me, if _that's_ what you mean."

"Oh? So you've been perfectly oblivious to the fact that I'm _old enough to be your father_?"

"You're not _that_ old," Sarah retorted, although it seemed an idiotic thing to say.

"You never turn over and think, 'What am I doing here with nasty old Professor Snape?'" There was a hard edge to the words.

"I try_ not _to think," she said. _Not about that_.

"That explains a great deal, doesn't it? Including the recent drop in your Potions marks."

She was too uncomfortable for the dark laughter the comment occasioned.

"And what do _you_ think?" she demanded, not at all sure she wanted to know. _That I'm just a child?_

He shut his eyes; there was a pained expression on his face. "I wake up to the smell of you on the sheets and ask myself, 'Do you realize that you slept with a _student_?'"

"Does that really _bother_ you?" she asked, incredulous. "You're a Slytherin. I'd think you would enjoy flouting the rules."

His eyes popped open, full of sparks. "In my experience, Gryffindors are much more inclined to flout the rules. And," he almost spat the words, "much more likely to get away with it."

"You know I would never tell on you," Sarah said defensively, feeling some deeper accusation in his words. "Not even if I were _tortured_."

"That's rather extreme hyperbole, isn't it?"

"No." She breathed, "I don't want to get you into trouble."

"Or yourself," he added mockingly. "You would be expelled, you realize?"

"You would get sacked."

"Hmmm." As if he did not think so at all.

"Well, you _would_ get sacked."

"Has that been your aim all along?" he asked snidely.

"Rrrrrr!" Sarah growled. She was on her feet in an instant, snatching up her robes, mumbling the neatness charm she had found. "I wouldn't keep coming back, would I, if that's what I intended? I could have gone to Professor McGonagall straight off after the first time..."

"All right," he said, trying to catch hold of her arm, "all right." She batted him away, stalked toward the portrait door and...found herself trapped by the wards. She glared at him, hoping her face would not show the embarrassment she felt at this interruption of her exit.

He approached her, his expression grim. Then, with a whispered word, he lifted the wards. She ducked out of the door. He did not try to stop her.

**

* * *

A/N: **Snape's password might give you a clue to one of the portrait puzzlers from the last chapter. Up next: one more short chapter before the Christmas Break, when things get more...interesting. 


	10. Ch 9: When You Find

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** It's all Joanne's. She's very sweet, too, for putting up with the lot of us and things we do to her characters.

**A/N:** A little sooner update this time. This is a short chapter, just two scenes I had to get out of the way before Christmas Break begins. The first I put in because they really have been far too lucky. The second...well, you'll see.

Oh, and the art... Snape's portrait door was inspired by a Gustave Doré illustration for Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven." The other was influenced by my favorite Renoir painting, "In the Meadow."

lucidity: Thanks for your review! Why does any smart, savvy woman keep going back for more, even ones that don't have Sarah's baggage? Does she _have_ anyone else:(

**

* * *

Chapter 9: When You Find That Once Again You Long to Take Your Heart Back and Be Free**

November sped past, counted more in heartbeats than in days. And in moments of panic. More than once, Sarah found herself returning up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower on the basis of a last minute message warning her not to come. The most distressing incident, however, occurred on a Sunday afternoon. She had checked her bookmark at the bottom of the steps, as always. But when she opened the Potions classroom door, someone else was already there. A pale-haired boy, probably in his fourth or fifth year, leaned against the frame of Snape's open office door, chuckling darkly. His mirth faded, though, when his head whipped around to see who had come in.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the boy asked, his expression ridiculously haughty, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he studied her Gryffindor colors.

Sarah, to her shock, found herself utterly without an answer.

"Who are you?" the blond boy demanded. _Malfoy_, she realized, _the Slytherin Seeker_.Not many students had hair that white.

Professor Snape appeared in the doorway. _Thank goodness_. "I don't recall that you had an appointment, Miss Darkglass," he remarked with his typical coldness. "Why are you here?"

An idea finally crystallized. "I...I realized that I had forgotten to borrow that book you recommended for my project." It was weak, maybe, but...

"And this could not have waited until class time tomorrow?" Snape asked. _Nastier_, she thought. _You have to sound nastier_.

"I just...I had some extra time to read today, and I thought..." It wasn't very difficult to play the role of a flustered student.

"You thought you could bother me on a weekend just as well as on a weekday?" Snape finished derisively.

Malfoy smirked, obviously pleased to watch his head of House dole out verbal abuse. There was something about the boy that made Sarah want badly to smack the look off his face. She could easily believe that this was the same little Malfoy who had spent an afternoon egging on other children to torment any living thing they could find in their host's garden, although he was considerably more good-looking now than he had been as a pale and spindly child. Good-looking enough to make some girl of his own year forget what a little beast he was. And suddenly, although her father had been dark rather than fair, Sarah saw such a resemblance between them that her hand twitched reflexively toward her wand.

The motion had not been lost on the boy, and he had his own wand out in an instant.

"Draco," Snape said, warningly. "Miss Darkglass, you will have the book in class tomorrow. Provided that I decide to take the trouble of finding it for you. The likelihood of which decreases every moment you remain standing here."

Stifling the urge to say, "Sorry, Professor," she turned and fled, as anyone would have done. Her heart felt as if it were going to burst as she headed up the main dungeon stairs, too afraid of being seen where she _really_ shouldn't be to risk ducking down the side passageway. Even an hour later, when she sat curled up against her pillows, pretending to read but waiting desperately for some explanation, each of her heartbeats still shook her.

They had been incredibly lucky all this time, she realized. Yes, they had been careful, but...was their luck was running out? Surely—it seemed to her as she sat shivering— it was only a matter of time until something else happened, until she or he or they were caught in some situation that could not be explained away. When her bookmark changed, she gasped so loudly that Patricia heard her through the bedcurtains, clear across the room.

"Are you all right, Sarah?" asked the seventh year prefect.

"Yes, fine," Sarah called out. "Just...a good part in my book."

"Oh," Patricia dismissed the matter.

_I had no time to warn you_.

Sarah's hands trembled as she uncorked her ink. _How can we prevent it from happening again?_

_I do have responsibilities_, was the reply. _What compelled you draw on Draco Malfoy?_

Sarah sighed._ Nothing_, she wrote.

_It was stupid. Don't do it again_.

_I'll try my best not to have an occasion to._

_That would seem to be the best possible idea._

Sarah chewed on her quill for a moment. _Late nights only?_ she suggested, resignedly.

His answer seemed to take a long time. _Fine_.

* * *

December began, with its relentless march toward the Christmas holidays, and their meetings grew even less frequent as papers and tests piled up. Finally it was Thursday of the last week of term. It was also the last time it would be possible to sneak out of Gryffindor Tower before she went home. People would be staying up late on Friday, packing and celebrating. 

Although he had agreed to her coming, Snape didn't stand up, didn't kiss her when she came into the office, as he always had. He went on grading term-end papers, without a hint or gesture that she should go back to his room.

She sank down on the chair in front of the desk, her heart sinking as well. It was not the first time she had wondered how much longer this relationship was going to last. It would have been nice if they had managed to go on until the end of the school year. That would have been a natural termination point: _Well, it was fun, you know, and have a nice life_. But she had never been confident that something wouldn't happen before then. That he might not suddenly decide it was too risky or that he was tired of her. The taut look on his face when he finally laid his quill aside suggested that perhaps that point had been reached.

"It has occurred to me," he said, "that you may find this necessary." He reached across the desk and handed her a small vial of inky-colored potion.

Sarah removed the stopper. If she didn't first try to determine what it was by the scent, he would accuse her of laziness or worse. But it was unfamiliar. She met his eyes questioningly. "What is it?"

"At least you're no longer accusing me of trying to poison you," he sneered. "It's Gravixterminus Potion."

_To end an unwanted pregnancy_. So...he had thought of that, finally. She held the vial for a little longer, hoping not to seem too abrupt; then she replaced the stopper and set it down on the desk.

"I don't want it."

His eyebrows went up. "So," he said, sullenly. "Do you intend some form of blackmail, Miss Darkglass?"

"You should know me better than that by now."

"Clearly not well enough to guess that you would refuse--"

"I may not even _be_ pregnant," Sarah protested, interrupting. Yes, she might be. If her cycles were regular, she would know whether she was late or not, but they had never been regular, and there was still time.

"And if you are?" Snape asked angrily. "Precisely how do you propose to explain your _condition_?"

"I'll say," Sarah replied calmly, "that I slept with my Muggle boyfriend over Christmas." She hadn't told him yet that she wasn't staying at Hogwarts for Christmas—that was part of the reason she had wanted to see him tonight; now she doubted that it would matter to him either way. "That's why I'm going home for the holidays. To make it plausible."

"Muggle boyfriend?" he echoed.

"Just a boy I know in the village." She shrugged.

"And his name is...?"

"I fail to see what that matters." She did not want to talk about her summer boyfriend to her...her lover.

"I think I have the right to know _something_," he said icily, "about the boy who is supposed to be the father of my child."

Sarah looked away. "His name is Michael. I only see him in the summer and on breaks. It isn't _serious_. We just enjoy each other's company. Friends. He doesn't even know I'm a witch."

"What about your family—I believe you live with an aunt? She won't confront him and attempt to convince him to do his duty by you?"

Sarah shook her head. "I'll tell Aunt Portia that it was someone at school. Another student, I mean," she added hastily. "And that things ended badly. And that there's no possibility of continuing the relationship. And that I don't want to talk about it."

He studied her with cold eyes for a long time before he spoke again. "You seem to have given the matter a great deal of thought."

"How could I _not_?"

"And if you are expelled for your obvious indiscretion?"

Sarah picked at a fingernail. "I can't be the only student ever to have gotten pregnant at school. I don't think Professor McGonagall would kick me out with less than a term left to go; no one could possibly notice until well after Easter. And really," she finished, "this is all just speculation at this point."

"And if this speculation should be a reality? It is impossible to comprehend the _insanity_ of you wishing to bear my child." The words were cutting, as if he were accusing her of something truly vile. Maybe he was.

"_It's not blackmail_," she said, knowing that was surely what he suspected most, "not of any kind. I don't want anything from you. I...I can't explain. I'm sorry, but I can't." How could she admit to him that when he was gone from her life, as she had always fully expected him to go, there might still be his child? That she could love that child, as she would never dare to love him?

They sat in silence for a minute...an uncomfortable silence. Sarah no longer felt like going into his chamber. She doubted, from his demeanor, that he felt in the least like taking her there.

"I'd better go," she said, standing. "You still have grading to do."

"Yes." He looked to the stack of parchment rolls.

"You could write to me." She turned back at the door. "Over Christmas."

"Perhaps I will," he said.

She did not think he meant it.

"Goodbye, Professor." She opened the door.

"Yes, then," he said, returning to his work. "Goodbye, Miss Darkglass."

**

* * *

A/N:** I'm not convinced that canonDraco is that good-looking, but I wanted to put in a nod to the gorgeous Tom Felton. And no, this is not the end of their relationship...how could you possibly think so:) 


	11. Ch 10: Spare a Thought for Me

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I am not the owner of this fine universe, nor am I making any money from what I write. The perks are all in the reviews.

**A/N:** I really hope you don't all band together and string me up when you get to the end of this chapter!

lucidity: Sarah is definitely a more troubled girl than she would ever admit. Again, though, the question is: who/what else does she have? And Snape...well, let's just say that she's given him _way_ too much to think about during the hols.

cecelle: His control over her is clearly slipping. She has no idea how far he will go to get it back.

**

* * *

Chapter 10: If You Ever Find a Moment, Spare a Thought for Me**

Sarah stepped off the Hogwarts Express in London more than ready for a holiday, but with her mind too full to permit the hope that she might actually enjoy this one. Aunt Portia waved to her with a spindled copy of _The Daily Prophet_.

"Sarah, it's good to have you home," her aunt said, embracing her with slender, bony arms. Then, as if something about her niece's response was unsatisfactory, she stepped back and surveyed her with a critical eye. "Have you been studying too hard, girl? You're so pale, you're like your own ghost. And you've hardly written to me this term."

"I'm all right," Sarah said, a sudden wash of guilt causing her, she was sure, to turn paler still. "You know the last year of school is hard, Aunt Portia. N.E.W.T.s are called that for a good reason."

"I know, I know. But I worry about you, all the same." As soon as Sarah had retrieved her trunk, Aunt Portia led the way off Platform 9 ¾. Sailing through the Muggle crowds like a ship of the line, she brought Sarah up to one of the Muggle trains.

"Couldn't we just...er...take the Knight Bus or something?" Sarah hadn't noticed it so much when she was younger, but every year she became more aware of the way her aunt stood out. Muggles did not typically wear long skirts to ride on trains, for one thing. But taking a connecting train from King's Cross was the simplest way to get to their village from London, and Aunt Portia had the right amount of Muggle money in hand for their tickets.

"I do not _like_ the Knight Bus. It's really for a much lower class of people. You _do_ have your Apparition License, you know," her aunt pointed out tartly, tucking away her newspaper in her large, wooden-handled handbag.

Sarah sighed, resigned to the trip. Just because she had gotten her license didn't mean she enjoyed doing it. The truth was, as her aunt well knew, that she would sooner tolerate the same old train trip she had made for past seven years, no matter how embarrassing it might be.

It was late when they finally reached home. The walk out from the village was a good mile, all told, and at the end of a long day, it was cold and exhausting, even with warming charms and her trunk lightened. With the moon waning, the trip was a dark one, shadowed even more by her aunt's glum opinions (now that they were out of the hearing of any Muggles) about the declining quality of _The Daily Prophet_, the miserable judgment of the Minister of Magic, and the probable return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. At journey's end, Sarah tumbled into bed and was asleep even before the cup of tea her aunt had insisted upon had grown cold on her bedside table.

* * *

The next afternoon, Sarah bundled up and went out. Beyond the next bend in the lane, there was a spot where she could see, for a long distance, the snowy fields stretching away toward black-limbed hedges. There was a stark beauty to it, even to the contrast between the present, forbidding, wintry landscape and the summer's green that had welcomed her when she had first come here to live. She had been fleeing to these fields for comfort for a long time. But as she looked out across them now, it was unsettling to recall what she had been looking for on that first day, something she had since tried very hard to forget she had ever wanted. It was troubling to realize, after all this while, that her soul had found solace in the scene because it offered a resemblance, a remembrance. Because these particular fields bore—vaguely to be sure—something of the look of the land around Darkglass Hall. 

Had the resemblance occurred to her that first day? She didn't think so, but so much of that time was a blur in her memory. She had only known that looking out across the fields made her feel better. She wanted it still to make her feel better. Although if it didn't anymore, that might make it easier to bid farewell to this place when it was time to start her apprenticeship and a life of her own. It occurred to her that Snape had failed to ever mention again the matter of helping her obtain an apprenticeship. She didn't like how loath she felt to begin making inquiries of her own. Probably she was just tired; in a day or two she would be up to it.

The slosh of footsteps coming along the muddy road interrupted her thoughts.

"Ho, Sarah!" he called. It was Michael. His carroty hair was buried under a blue stocking cap, but the cold had brought out the red in his cheeks. "You weren't at home. I thought I might find you here."

It was here, not long after her first expedition to these fields, that she had met him. And in his open-hearted way, he had observed her unhappiness and listened willingly while she bemoaned her fate—her parents separated, and having to live in this place with her mother's very particular and much older half-sister. Muggle though he was, he had made the changes to her life bearable. They had been convinced, at the age of ten, that they would marry someday. But the months and months of every year that they spent apart at school had worked the sort of detachment that one might expect. And she couldn't help wondering, now, whether her mother's charms had had something to do with it, too—out of sight, out of mind? Still, she had not been sorry to find, by the end of their third year at school, that they were merely friends. If things had ever become serious, sooner or later it would have been unavoidable: she would have had to tell him that she was a witch.

The fear of doing so had not arisen from any concern about his reaction. He had always accepted her odd family, her eccentric aunt and her own sometimes quirky ways without criticism. But she had not been able to bring herself to tell him that secret, despite all the years she had known him. Perhaps it was because the fact that he _didn't _know had become a refuge for her. His Muggle world was utterly apart from the stresses and sorrows that had plagued her childhood. If he knew, he would, by default, become a part of her world. No longer a place to flee to, however briefly, from it.

"Got home from school yesterday, same as me?" he asked, coming up.

"Yes, late though. It's a long way from Scotland."

"Last year of it."

Sarah nodded.

"Think you're going to manage your A Levels, or whatever they call them at that old-fashioned school your aunt sends you to?"

Having deduced, from past conversations about Michael's Muggle school, that he meant a set of final exams that resembled N.E.W.T.s, she said, "I think so. It's been a rough term."

"Tell me about it!" He grinned. "Old Trig Trent seems to believe that none of us have any other lessons, based on the amount of work he sets."

They rambled along the road, chatting about all the usual old things, and a few new ones. He had met a girl at school, and Sarah listened sympathetically to his woes in courting her.

"You don't still fancy me, do you, Sarah?" Michael asked abruptly into an extended silence.

Sarah laughed. "I'd hardly listen to you rave on about this Tara girl if I did, now would I?"

It would have been the perfect opportunity to steer the conversation towards saying, _We'll always just be friends, Michael—but would you like to shag anyway?_ But somehow the idea of anyone else touching her like that, even Michael, was...well, squeamish. _I'll have to get over that, won't I? At some point. Or stay celibate for the rest of my bloody life._

"Just," Michael said, "you never talk about boyfriends of your own."

"You heard every painful detail of my crush on Martin Mickelson!" she protested.

"That was three years ago. Isn't there anyone up there in Scotland worth looking at? Or are you just not looking? I can't believe no one's looking at you." He raised his eyebrows, which made them all but disappear under his hat.

"You're right," she said, trying to smile. "There's not many worth looking at."

"No one at all?" Michael persisted.

"Well..." Sarah admitted, wishing suddenly that she could tell him everything. "There was someone, this term. I don't think it will last after Christmas, though."

"Oh...sorry," he said, with an expression of profound regret at his blunder in bringing it up. "You breaking it off? Or him?"

Sarah pondered this for a moment. "Him. I think. I'm not sure, really."

"If you're not sure who wants to end it, maybe it's not ended. Is he nice?"

Sarah choked on a laugh. "Oh no," she said. "Not nice at all."

Michael looked genuinely puzzled about why that fact was so amusing. "Really, Sarah...I mean, do I have to track this bloke down and warn him to treat you right?"

The thought was sobering enough that it helped her stop giggling. "No, no, that would be a really bad idea. I promise."

"He's not nice, but you fancy him? That doesn't sound like you, Sarah." Michael was still frowning.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," she sighed. "Please don't worry about me. It really is over, I think."

"Well, I hope so, for your sake."

They went on into plans for the holidays. Michael had an outrageous number of things on his schedule—trips to London, meetings with school friends, visits to half a hundred relatives. Sarah, who had no friends to meet and no other relatives worth speaking to (let alone visiting), felt meagerly consoled by the prospect of a trip to Diagon Alley to buy Christmas gifts later in the week. But she and Michael managed to arrange a lunch date in the village, and Michael promised her a trip to the cinema sometime before the break was over. Muggle pictures were usually quite entertaining, even if she didn't understand everything that happened in them, and she looked forward to the prospect.

"I remember you like Jane Austen," Michael said. She did. Aunt Portia, who thought Austen's books more appropriate for girls than most wizarding romance novels, had introduced Sarah to them during Christmas of her fourth year. "I heard there's a new film of _Sense and Sensibility_, with some excellent stars. Dunno if it's out yet, but if it is, we'll go to that."

* * *

Regardless of what she had told Michael, it was more difficult than she had hoped to come to terms with the fact that her relationship with Professor Snape was almost certainly at an end. But although she checked her bookmark every night, the flowers never altered. Considering the purpose the ink had been designed for, she doubted that distance would be a negating factor, as it was in most spells. She was only slightly tempted to write to him first; it would be awkward, to say the least. And the only real news she could give him would hardly be conducive to his comfort—certainly not to his approval. With another week gone and still no _red_ "flowers" appearing, she had little doubt that she had a problem. 

At least _that_ problem was manageable, something she could plan for, something she could deal with. Something that would not depend on his volatile, unpredictable temperament. And in that respect, the end of their relationship could only be perceived as a good thing. That thought went a long way toward smoothing over the gap in her life as the holidays passed.

By the afternoon of Christmas Day, she was no longer thinking of him with every dozen breaths. Instead her daydreams were taken up by a dark-haired, dark-eyed child. _Severian Darkglass_. A risky name, maybe, although she would be well out of school by then, away from anyone with the power to question her about it. The gossip of busybodies could never be proven. And no one paid that much attention to her to begin with. Once Aunt Portia got over the shock of her niece having a baby without a father, she would spoil her grand-nephew silly. Presuming it _was_ a him. The Plattuses had such a habit of having girls. But Sarah didn't think she was mistaken.

Sarah was curled up on the old settle by the kitchen hearth. Aunt Portia had given her a copy of _Accidents of Alchemy_ as one of her Christmas gifts, and she was deeply absorbed in it when the front bell jangled. She marked her place hastily and went to the door. Muggle carolers, maybe? If they were foolish enough to brave this icy weather. No one else would call on them today. Maybe Michael had gotten away from his family after all, and would make an offer she couldn't refuse to go see the Muggle pictures with him. She was smiling when she opened the door.

There on the doorstep stood Professor Snape.

"Happy Christmas, Sarah," he said.

**

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A/N:** Michael is actually wrong about the movie. Although _Sense and Sensibility_ came out in December in the U.S., it didn't come out until February in the U.K. (IMDB is so useful.) At least I _finally_ managed to get in some meager Alan Rickman reference. (Every good Snape story deserves one, after all!) Oh, and I'll update soon, I promise! 


	12. Ch 11: Think of It, a Secret Engagement

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** My compliments to JKR, for creating such a great universe to play in, and for not suing us for playing in it. My compliments also to Jane Austen, who although she is dead and can't sue me, had a lot of influence on this chapter.

**A/N:** Thanks, as always, to my reviewers. And special thanks to cecelle for beta-ing this chapter and making some useful suggestions about its ending. Sorry this took longer than I planned to get uploaded.

**

* * *

Chapter 11: Think of It, a Secret Engagement**

As Sarah stared numbly at him, she heard her aunt come up behind her.

"Who do we have the honor of...?" Aunt Portia asked.

"Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House at Hogwarts." He made a curt bow.

There was nothing worse he could have said, and Sarah felt her aunt stiffen at her back. Why couldn't he have just said he was the Potions master? Why did he have to mention Slytherin? And what was he doing here at her door?

"May I come in?" he went on, his teeth chattering slightly.

Aunt Portia's instinctive good manners forced her to permit him to enter, although Sarah, who had retreated from the door, could see that her aunt's expression was just as frigid as the snowy doorstep. Her voice, however, remained steadily, if coolly, polite. "This may seem abrupt, Professor Snape, but may I inquire the reason for your visit?"

_It's about the apprenticeship_, thought Sarah, permitting herself a small mental sigh of relief. _That's all it **could** be._ _He can't tell on me without incriminating himself._

Snape was removing his gloves, and he finished before he answered. "Since you are, I understand, your niece's guardian, it seems appropriate that I should inform you of my intention to marry Miss Darkglass."

_Marry Miss Darkglass?_ The ice castle she had been building to protect her future seemed to shiver and shatter at the words. This was not at all what was supposed to happen.

"How _dare_ you!" Sarah found her voice before her aunt did. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, but she found she did not have the breath for anything further, and whirled away from him, gasping.

"This is very...unexpected..." There was a note of query in her aunt's voice.

"I see that Sarah intended to tell you under other circumstances," Snape lied smoothly.

Sarah turned around, eyes blazing. She had no idea what she was going to say. _I never agreed to marry you. As if you ever asked me._ Or maybe to her aunt: _I'm sorry but my Potions teacher seems to have gone completely mental. Maybe we'd better contact St. Mungo's._ But Snape did not give any obvious appearance of being unbalanced. And it was _her_ at whom her aunt was frowning.

Portia Plattus cleared her throat. "I must say that this is _very_ much out of the ordinary, Professor Snape. Is Albus Dumbledore aware of this..._engagement?_" She shot another look at Sarah.

_Please do not say yes. Or at least let that not be the truth._

"I intend to discuss the matter with him at the beginning of the new term."

_Over my dead body._

"Then this is a...recent...circumstance?" Aunt Portia glanced at Sarah, looking as if she suspected her niece of Flooing out of the house every night for secret trysts. With a _Slytherin_.

_No, you only sneaked out of the dorms_, her conscience assailed her.

"Very recent." Snape caught Sarah's eye, one of those intense looks that had started all this. She made herself blink and look away.

"I...am not sure...what to say. This is...very..." Aunt Portia, who was seldom at such a loss for words, stammered out. Then, finding a more familiar target, she spoke shrilly, "Sarah, what have you to say for yourself?"

"A great deal," Sarah managed tightly, glaring at Snape. "But to him. In _private_." She turned to her aunt. "Please," she pleaded.

Whether it was because her aunt was too kerflummoxed to continue to deal with the head of Slytherin House standing in her front hall, or whether it was because she hoped a lover's quarrel—potentially one that would end this appalling relationship—needed as much encouragement as possible, Aunt Portia agreed frostily. "Very well. Perhaps it will give you time to consider your explanation for all this. If you will excuse me, _Professor_." She sailed off towards the back of the house.

Snape gestured to the parlor door. Insufferable, considering that this was her own home. Sarah stalked into the room. When the latch clicked behind him, she spun around.

"How dare you!" She felt tears welling up in her throat. "Do you realize that you have probably just _ruined_ my life? But then, that's likely what you intended, isn't it?" She realized she was shouting. He never liked that. She didn't care. This was far, far worse than anything she had ever expected him to do. All her tentative plans for salvaging her future depended on Aunt Portia's goodwill. And he had just lost her that, perhaps irrevocably.

"Do not make assumptions about what my intentions..." he snapped, but she didn't let him get any further.

"This is _your_ form of blackmail, isn't it? Because I wouldn't take the potion."

His eyes narrowed. "You seem to have a very poor grasp of the concept of blackmail. Threats typically come _before_ revelations."

Sarah was so upset she couldn't quite track what he was saying, beyond his vague denial, and she changed course only slightly. "So, you decided on one last little stab to make sure this ended with me really, truly hating you? It didn't occur to you what the aftermath might be?"

"What _are_ you talking about?" There was a frown crease between his brows.

"My _aunt_," Sarah said, stunned to the core that he might really not have considered this before making his horrible little joke. "She was my mother's older sister. My father broke my mother's heart. No, he broke _her_. My aunt _despises_ anyone ever associated with Slytherin House, and now she thinks _I'm_ in a relationship with one."

"My," he broke in snidely, "how quickly we forget. You _are_ in a relationship with one. And I don't recall that you gave any consideration to your aunt's feelings about this before now."

The jab quenched some of the fire that was propelling her. Because he was right.

"I don't see why it was necessary," she continued in a colder tone, "to show up on my doorstep making this kind of a _joke_. Or are cruel jokes essential to your Slytherin well-being?"

"I was under the impression that jokes were intended to be _amusing_. I'm not _laughing_, Sarah. Or perhaps it's that you _prefer_ to consider it a joke?" There were sharp edges on his words, like shards of something that had been broken.

Sarah swallowed uncomfortably. "You cannot possibly intend to marry me."

"On the contrary, I am very much in earnest."

"No," she said after a stunned moment. "I cannot believe that. Why? Why would you do such a thing?"

Silence on his part, a long, long silence. She tried to read his expression and failed utterly.

"My son," he said finally, "is not going to be born without his father's name."

"You know?" Sarah blinked. Then, realizing, "You _knew!_ You already knew when you offered me the Gravixterminus ... _How?_"

"A fallen strand of hair can reveal many things, given the right application." He reached out a hand and brushed a lock back from her face.

Sarah turned away from him. "I never expected you to do this. It isn't as if..." She didn't dare to think the words, let alone say them: _as if you loved me_.

"Didn't you?"

"No!" She turned back to face him. His expression had become as unpleasant as it ever was in class. "Whatever you call this, you're really just trying to get me to take the potion, aren't you?"

"Do you _want_ to?" he asked. Although his sneer remained the same, something changed in his eyes.

Sarah braced herself. "No, I don't. But that doesn't mean I want anything from you. I don't want money. I don't want attention. I just want..."

"The _child_," he spat bitterly.

She stared, perplexed at his vehemence.

"Considering that you've made your choice, I now have every right to make mine."

"And I have every right to say 'no'."

"Sarah..." he began sternly.

Another voice broke in. "O, Mistress Sarah? Sorry we is for interrupting. But Mistress Portia wants to know if _that Slytherin_," the house-elf imitated her aunt's manner so perfectly that she was sure it was exactly how the request had been made, "will be staying to supper? We is putting it on the table."

"No," Sarah said.

"Yes," Snape overruled her. The house-elf lowered her ear tips, clearly confused.

"Do you have to make this worse than it already is?"

"It cannot be any worse, based upon what you've told me. I have no other plans and I have had a tediously long day."

_On Christmas?_ "Oh, all right then!" she said. "Set another place, Ganna." The house-elf vanished.

* * *

The meal was not in any way a success. Sarah, mortified by her aunt's displeasure, said nothing at all. Snape tried to engage Portia Plattus in a conversation about the Ministry of Magic's interference with the management of Hogwarts. Aunt Portia—who, to Sarah's knowledge, had never been a fan of the Ministry, and had always expressed supreme confidence in Professor Dumbledore—remarked that if things were going so badly at the school, the Ministry might very well be in the right to interfere. The conversation grew heated, and Sarah cowered over her soup while the two traded increasingly unveiled insults. Snape departed in something more like his usual black mood immediately after supper without another word about their supposed engagement, either not knowing or not caring that he was leaving Sarah to be put to the rack. 

Aunt Portia did not let up for the rest of the evening. _How could she have done this? Hadn't she been warned, over and over? By her own poor mother, who had **died** of being married to a Slytherin?_ No, Sarah protested, she had died of _loving_ a Slytherin with all her loyal Hufflepuff-ish heart. Portia, who had been a Hufflepuff herself, did not take this well. _Did Sarah have no sense of loyalty to her family—the **worthwhile** side of her family? Did she have no loyalty to her mother's memory? Or to her aunt who had taken her in and raised her?_ It was only loyalty that prevented Sarah from pointing out that since her mother's death, her aunt had only been taking care of her during the few weeks of school holidays. Portia went on a new tack: _Did she not realize that dating a teacher, let alone marrying one, was against the school rules? Or it had been when Portia was at Hogwarts, and she didn't believe things had changed to that degree. Had she _(unthinkably)_ slept with him?_

Sarah locked herself in her bedroom. The shouting in the hallway outside her room turned into hysterical weeping which, after a while, retreated into her aunt's room next door. Although it went on and on, Sarah guessed that this was only an interlude. She went to the closet and pulled out her trunk.

After a while, the weeping seemed to subside. Sarah had just finished repacking when she heard her aunt moving about. Before the sound of footsteps even reached her door, the screaming started again.

"_Get out of my house! Do you hear me? Get out of my house! You horrible, ungrateful girl!_"

Sarah threw on her cloak and grabbed the handle of her trunk before she flung the door open. Aunt Portia stared at her, speechless, her face crinkling up as if she were going to start in on another weeping fit. At least the screaming had stopped. Sarah pushed past her aunt and down the stairs, her trunk thumpthumpthumping behind her.

"_You know what you've chosen, don't you? You know what this means, don't you?_"

Sarah turned back, her hand on the doorknob. Her aunt looked as desperate as she felt, and if there had been a kind word spoken, Sarah might have dropped her trunk and run back into the woman's arms.

Some wounds, perhaps, were too deep to ever heal.

"_Never step foot in this house again!_"

Before Sarah had made it to the edge of the road, she heard a series of locking charms being shouted at the door behind her. But it wasn't until she had stumbled up the steps of the Knight Bus and collapsed on one of the bunks that she let herself weep so wretchedly that she was ill and exhausted enough to fall asleep.

**

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A/N:** You know, for once I can't think of anything to say at this point. I'll try to update soon. 


	13. Ch 12: In This Labyrinth, Where Night Is...

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** If you recognize it from the Harry Potter books, it's JKR's. If you don't, it's mine.

**A/N:** I thought that would surprise everyone! The reasons will be revealed in bits and pieces. But real reasons are never easy to figure out with Snape, are they? Many thanks to my devoted reviewers—you guys make this a thousand times more fun to write! And special thanks to cecelle for beta-ing this chapter for me.

* * *

**Chapter 12: In This Labyrinth, Where Night Is Blind**

The Knight Bus let her off in Hogsmeade at dawn. She didn't have the energy to drag her trunk up the hill just yet, lightened or not, so she left it in a corner of The Three Broomsticks with a promise to Madam Rosmerta that it would be gone by suppertime. It was icily cold outside, and by the time she had reached Hogwarts, she was thinking longingly of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. But as she stomped the snow off her boots on the stones that had the mopping charm, Professor McGonagall emerged from the shadows.

"Miss Darkglass?" Her Head of House wore a grim expression. Not a good sign. "Ah, it _is_ you. Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office immediately."

Sarah's heart raced as Professor McGonagall led her up and spoke the password to let them in. The fact that McGonagall had clearly been waiting for her arrival...that the _headmaster_ had been waiting for her...it did not bode well at all.

"Ah, Sarah Darkglass," said Professor Dumbledore, as McGonagall excused herself. "Please sit down. You look as if you could do with a peppermint." He handed her one, and she felt obliged to pop it in her mouth. "Nothing seems quite so terrible after a peppermint."

Sarah let the mint roll around on her tongue, concentrating on the flavor, wondering if the candy might be laced with some type of calming potion. But the mint was strong enough to mask anything else, if it was there. Last time he had offered lemon drops.

"Now," Professor Dumbledore began, "I understand that you've had some type of quarrel with your guardian."

"With my aunt." _How did he know that? **What **did he know?_

The headmaster took out a small scroll and handed it to her. "I received this from Portia Plattus at five o'clock this morning."

Sarah unrolled the parchment, dreading what it might say.

_Albus_, it began, in her aunt's spidery hand, punctuated here and there by sharp, heavy underlining. _My niece is no longer welcome in my home, and she should not be expected to return here during the Easter holidays or at the end of the year. Perhaps her other relatives will take her in, but I will not concern myself with arranging for it. Since she is of age, she can arrange matters to suit herself. _(signed)_ Portia Plattus.  
__P.S. In future, please keep better control over your staff._

Sarah gulped down the shards of peppermint she had crushed between her teeth. It was not as bad as she had expected, although the postscript would surely raise questions.

"You are, of course," said Dumbledore, "always welcome to remain at Hogwarts during the holidays. I am sorry that this has happened, after everything else."

Sarah, who had scarcely dared to look at the headmaster, raised her head. _Did he remember? **What** did he remember? _His eyes were an astonishingly brilliant blue, more so than she remembered, and gentler than she felt she deserved, especially after the past twelve hours.

Dumbledore went on, "Your aunt was very vague about the nature of your quarrel, but the implication that someone on the staff has contributed to it concerns me. Are you aware to whom she's referring?"

"No," Sarah answered, perhaps a little too quickly. "I mean..." She would have to fabricate something plausible before the headmaster could come anywhere near the truth. And yet it was suddenly very hard to lie, even knowing that she had to. But no, it was not entirely a lie. "She's unhappy with a decision that I made, and she's convinced that one of my professors must have had an influence on me."

"And is that the case?" Dumbledore asked. For a moment, there was something in his glance, something _knowing_. As if he knew everything. As if he were asking her quite a different question. Such as, _Who tempted whom?_

"No," Sarah said, knowing this at least to be true. "I made my own choice."

Professor Dumbledore looked at her silently for a long minute, his hands folded over his lengthy beard.

"I am really very concerned about you, Sarah. Who, besides your aunt, do you have to go to?"

Sarah grimaced. "My father's sister married a Nott. I suppose her family are the only other relatives I have."

"You don't wish to go to them," Dumbledore queried perceptively.

"No, I don't," Sarah admitted. "I...I planned to get an apprenticeship anyway, at the end of the year. I'll manage somehow."

His eyes took on that shrewd look again.

"If you are in some kind of trouble, Sarah, I want you to know that you are always free to speak to me about it."

"I'm alright, really I am."_ And what will happen when I have to sit here later on this year and explain that I'm going to have a baby? _It wasn't likely that Madam Pomfrey would fail to take a thing like that to Professor McGonagall, or that Professor McGonagall would keep something so serious from the headmaster.

Dumbledore nodded to himself for a moment, then got up and went to the door. Sarah readied herself to stand up, expecting to be dismissed. Instead he opened it a crack and said, "Professors?"

When Professor McGonagall entered the office, Sarah began to feel slightly concerned. What more did her Head of House have to do with this, if her conversation with the headmaster was over? But when Professor Snape came in behind McGonagall, Sarah knew that her problems were only just beginning. She looked to Professor Dumbledore in alarm, wondering why he would go through such a charade. There was a somewhat sad smile on the old man's face.

"Well, Severus, she refuses to implicate you," he said. "You may find that encouraging."

McGonagall snorted faintly.

He had told. He had told Dumbledore everything.

_Everything? Dear God_.

Was she about to be expelled? Was that why Dumbledore had been so concerned whether she had someplace to go? Was there no way out of this?

_Just lie. There's nothing left to lose._

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," she said, cursing the unsteadiness of her voice. "Why would I blame Professor Snape for my aunt's throwing me out?" She shot the man a quick look of pure venom. _Yes, you know that it was your fault. Happy?_ But his infuriating expression of quiet satisfaction did not change.

Dumbledore shook his head. "When I received your aunt's letter this morning, since you had not yet returned, I decided to contact the one person on the staff to whom your aunt was most likely to take offense."

"Professor Snape," Sarah murmured.

"Yes. And I'm afraid that Professor Snape was able to make it only too clear exactly what had happened." The sad smile had changed to the hint of a frown. "I do understand why you would not want to confess the details of the situation to me. But this is a very serious matter indeed."

_What kind of lies has he told to protect himself? To see to it that I'm expelled and he isn't sacked? No wonder he looks so smug_.

"I'm not sure," she said, "that you know the whole truth, Professor Dumbledore."

With an expansive gesture, Dumbledore said, "I am certainly willing to listen to whatever you have to say."

Sarah took a deep breath. As she tried to formulate a response, she realized that there was nothing she could say that would protect her. She could try to deny that there had ever been any relationship between them. But if the note itself was not incriminating enough, her aunt would undoubtedly back up the fact that Snape had come to see Sarah. And even if it were not for that, she was hard-pressed to think of any motivation she could accuse Snape of having for fabricating the whole tale. He was known for being unfair, but never this unfair.

And then, of course, there was the fact that she, at least, had promised never to say anything to anyone. It would be like him to have secretly set up a curse that would react to the broken confidence.

Sarah let her eyes drop to her lap. "I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore. I made a promise to keep silent about this, and even now, I'm not sure what I can say." She looked at Snape, and said, as nastily as he might have himself, "I suppose _this_ is your idea of torture?"

That at least wiped the smug look off his face. "Hardly," he said snidely. "You never wish to see that."

It was almost too tempting to say something, anything, promise or not, curse or not, so long as it made sure he fell right along with her. But she had no idea what lies he had told, and therefore no idea how to attack them, and she was not about to embarrass herself further by broadly discussing the intimate details of their relationship in front of Professor McGonagall (whose mouth was a thin, angry line), let alone Professor Dumbledore.

Sarah turned back to the headmaster. "What...what is going to happen now?" _What actually happens when you get expelled?_

"Well, you have put us in something of a quandary."

"To say the least," interjected McGonagall. "If Portia Plattus takes this to the Ministry now, Albus... Even if she does nothing more than complain to her friends, you know how gossip spreads..."

Dumbledore raised a hand to interrupt her. "She will be far too ashamed of her niece's conduct to gossip about it. I know Portia Plattus well enough to know her prejudices. And despite that jab at me in her letter, I suspect that she puts the real blame for the situation entirely on her niece. Am I right, Sarah?" Appallingly, the headmaster's eyes twinkled.

Sarah was too amazed to reply.

"It has not been adequately resolved to _my _satisfaction," Professor McGonagall said, "just who _is_ to blame."

Could it possibly be...? Was McGonagall _defending_ her?

Dumbledore glanced over at Snape before he replied. "So far as I am aware, such relationships usually require mutual consent. Unless you are suggesting otherwise, Minerva? Sarah?" Dumbledore turned to her for confirmation, and this time she found her voice. Barely.

"It was..." Sarah's head was going round and round in perplexity. If Dumbledore didn't think that she, alone, had acted wrongly... But clearly Snape was not being sacked... "_What_ did you tell them?" she finally demanded of the Potions master.

"I told him everything," Snape replied evenly.

"The _truth_?" Sarah insisted.

"As difficult as you undoubtedly find that to believe, yes." He did not break down in the staring contest she had challenged him to. If anything, it was Sarah who found it difficult not to look away.

"As I was saying," Dumbledore guided the conversation back on track, giving Sarah an excuse to change her focus, "I have no reason to believe that it is at all helpful at this point to assign additional blame to one or the other."

McGonagall glared at Snape as if she would be quite happy to accuse the head of Slytherin of taking advantage one of her Gryffindors. "What about the fact that Professor Snape is a _teacher _at this school?" she asked pointedly.

Dumbledore did look uncomfortable at that. "Minerva, in the fourteen years that he has been on the staff, have you ever known Professor Snape to engage in anything resembling an inappropriate relationship with a student before now?"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Not to my knowledge, no," she admitted.

"And have you ever had any trouble with Sarah in the past?"

"Sarah Darkglass has always been very well-behaved. We've never had any difficulty with her. Which is why this comes as such a shock." Sarah shrank in her chair. McGonagall's disappointment in her was palpable.

"In fact," McGonagall went on, "my original intention was to suggest that we should inquire further into this very irregular incident. Their relationship seems to have begun shortly after Halloween. It's possible that they may have encountered some sort of spell that night..."

"I assure you," Snape interrupted, "that is the _first_ thing I thought of."

McGonagall looked irritated. "All the same, I think we should make sure."

Dumbledore nodded quietly. "I hope neither of you have any objection to that?"

Sarah shook her head.

"If it will make you feel better, Professor McGonagall," Snape offered snidely.

It seemed doubtful, from her expression, that anything would make McGonagall feel better, but she wasted no time throwing a spell-detecting charm. She took several minutes analyzing the results before she finally shook her head.

"Nothing. At least nothing that would explain this. Although there is something a little odd about Miss Darkglass—a sort of...layer of protection. Not exactly a spell, but..."

"A residue," Snape said. "Of hundreds, maybe thousands of charms Sarah's mother cast on her during at least the first nine years of her life. And there is your explanation, if you require one."

"I don't understand." McGonagall's eyebrows drew up.

"You pride yourself on knowing all of your students. What do you remember about Sarah Darkglass? Or should I say, what _did_ you remember before you looked in your files this morning?"

McGonagall opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was obviously kerflummoxed. As if suddenly realizing how she looked, she shut her mouth. Finally she said, "When a student has never given me any difficulties..."

"I suppose you don't recall her first month here?" Snape challenged.

"Of course that was a difficult situation. And so unexpected. Julia Plattus was always such a meek little thing. Although Malcolm Darkglass was a terrible rake. For it to end so very badly..."

"So, you remember two students who left Hogwarts over twenty years ago, two students who weren't even in your House? And yet you have difficulty remembering any details about their _Gryffindor _daughter, whom you have taught for the past seven years? A girl whose first year here began with her mother's _suicide_. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?"

"What are you suggesting?" McGonagall's voice was quavering, and she looked at Sarah as if to confirm to herself that the girl actually existed.

"It is obvious to me that the residue left by the charms has made Sarah...not exactly _unnoticeable_. That would have been discovered before now. But it deflects some amount of attention from her. Makes her difficult to remember."

"That's...that's _terrible_."

"Is it, Minerva?" Dumbledore said. "Although I will admit that Sarah may not have been given as much continuing consideration as her situation required. And for that I am sorry, Sarah."

Sarah grimaced. She did not like to be reminded of what had happened to her mother. What if people had _kept_ reminding her?

Dumbledore went on. "You know the watch that I keep on children of known or suspected Death Eaters. And I had intended to keep an especially careful eye on Sarah, for other reasons of course, after her mother's death. I discovered this morning that, despite my best intentions, I have not done so. Undoubtedly Severus is correct in his assessment. But whatever attention she has been deprived of, this residual spell has also apparently kept her from any particular notice by Malcolm's old associates. And that is something for which to be grateful."

"Then _how_," said McGonagall, recovering, to Snape, "did she come to _your_ attention?"

But it was the headmaster who answered first. "It seems," he said thoughtfully, "that the danger they experienced together has somehow exempted him from the effects of the residual spell. To suddenly find Miss Darkglass _noticeable_ must have had a significant impact. Perhaps on both of them. There may have been more to it than that, but how much is due to her mother's efforts to protect her we may never be able determine. People do sometimes fall in love _without_ magic you know, Minerva."

_Fall in love? No, never that_. Sarah glanced uneasily at Snape, but his attention was on Dumbledore and his eyes were unreadable. The headmaster was probably too old, and undoubtedly too good, to envision other motivations than love.

McGonagall still looked unhappy. "It would just be easier to accept if I knew they'd had no choice in the matter. The rules about relationships between teachers and students are very strict, and with good reason."

"What do you expect me to do, Minerva?" The headmaster sounded almost...tired. Then again, if he had been awakened at five o'clock this morning... "I agree with you: under ordinary circumstances, I would have let Severus go immediately, a point that I made quite clear to him earlier. But these are not ordinary circumstances. His position within Voldemort's ranks is always precarious. If he were to be sacked, his value—as Voldemort's spy inside Hogwarts—diminishes dramatically. Voldemort seldom tolerates failure in his servants, and the least terrible penalty would be a swift death. Can we risk that?

"Also, remember the scrutiny we are under at present. To dismiss a teacher now, for any reason, would be seized upon instantly as evidence of my incompetence for having hired him in the first place. And undoubtedly the Ministry would attempt to fill the empty position with their own candidate. No," he shook his head, "this matter must be handled very carefully indeed.

"And for that, I am afraid, much depends upon Sarah." He fixed her with his blue, blue eyes.

Sarah was stunned. She had just learned more of significance about Snape in two minutes than she had in the past two months. She had tried to tell herself that his Death Eater days _must_ be behind him. If that were possible for anyone who had been caught in that web. And if not, it didn't matter did, it? Because she didn't love him. But now... _A spy for You-Know-Who? And yet Dumbledore knows it_... She had a bad moment of wondering if everyone had gone over to the dark. But she couldn't believe that. If Dumbledore yielded, there was no hope at all. There was obviously a larger and more complicated game being played.

Dumbledore seemed to be aware that her attention was wandering, and he waited until it came back before he went on. "You have been very discreet thus far. If the circumstances were appropriate, I would say _commendably_ discreet. You must continue to be so."

He turned to Snape. "You have the special license?"

Snape drew a folded square of parchment from an inner pocket and handed it to the headmaster, who scanned it carefully.

"Ah, good. The signature as well. I was concerned about that. Any evidence of my knowledge of this would be hazardous. I assume your contacts will be able to slip this into the Ministry's files just as quietly?"

Snape nodded.

"So, there's just the ceremony left."

Unable to view the writing on the paper from where she was sitting, Sarah stood up and peered over the headmaster's elbow. She was almost certain of the contents even before she saw them. The parchment was headed by the fancy scrollwork that proclaimed it to have been issued by the Ministry of Magic. She saw her own name, neatly entered by some clerkish hand, along with another name that featured still more of those copperplate S's. At the bottom of the page was a scrawl of a signature that she could not make out, beside a shimmering red stamp that read _NOT YET FORMALIZED_.

"You meant it," she whispered, although in the silence it sounded very loud.

"I meant it," Snape said, just short of a snap.

Sarah sank back down into the chair, wishing she had one of the Weasley twins' fainting pills. Swooning seemed the appropriate response, but her body was too strong and sensible to cooperate with any ephemeral sense of the fitness of things.

"Are you sure this is really _wise_?" McGonagall asked. Sarah had doubted, up to now, how much her Head of House had been told. But the lack of surprise at the document in Dumbledore's hands hinted that there had indeed been some discussion between the three of them before Sarah arrived.

"Under the circumstances, and considering Miss Darkglass's condition, I hardly see that I can do otherwise." Sarah winced. So Professor Dumbledore knew about _that_, too. Snape had not held back on any humiliating detail. "Since I cannot safely dismiss either of them, and since I would prefer not to have an illicit affair continue _as_ an illicit affair within these walls, something must be done. Also, it may be easier to maintain the necessary discretion with our cooperation than without it."

Dumbledore refolded the paper and put it away in his robes. "It would be best, I think, if no one else knows that Miss Darkglass has returned to school before term time. No one else saw her arrive? Good. Minerva, please see to it that her things are sent to Professor Snape's chambers. She can remain hidden there until the rest of the students return. Once she is back in her dormitory, other arrangements will be made. Madam Pomfrey will also need to be informed of the situation, under strictest confidence of course. I believe she has the means of keeping certain things hidden from the other students."

McGonagall nodded in acquiescence, although she was still frowning.

"Please remember," Dumbledore added, "that this situation, however undesirable, is not without its benefits."

"I do not like the risks to yet another of my students," McGonagall answered bluntly. Something else, Sarah realized, that must have been discussed in her absence.

The impulse to run had been growing all the time that she listened to Dumbledore making unwanted arrangements for her future. Now she slid forward to the edge of her chair. "Risks?"

They all turned to her, all with different expressions, all equally difficult to read. McGonagall seemed a bit distraught, under her bristle of displeasure. Professor Dumbledore wore that sad smile again. And Snape...Snape was hardest to read of all. If she didn't know better, she would think he was distraught as well. But since that was impossible, he must simply be angry, although at what, she couldn't tell. It was a change from his mood thus far.

Dumbledore spoke quietly. "While your relationship must remain a secret at Hogwarts, it need not necessarily remain one from Lord Voldemort." It always startled her when the headmaster spoke You-Know-Who's name aloud, and now it turned her marrow to ice. "It can only be pleasing to him that Severus has been able to seduce a student, undetected, under my very nose. And not just any student, but the daughter of Malcolm Darkglass, who died for the cause. Voldemort appreciates martyrdom to the extent that it indicates loyalty to him. The last member of the Darkglass line would be welcomed by him."

"I would never..." Sarah began to protest.

"Headmaster," Snape interrupted, his voice taut, "I would prefer to tell her the rest myself."

"Very well," Dumbledore allowed. "Now, I expect that Sarah would not care to be married standing in her damp traveling clothes. Or without even having had breakfast. Can you take care of her, Minerva?"

"Yes, I will." The firmness of the answer was not very promising, from Sarah's perspective.

"I believe Professor Umbridge has returned to her home, at least for this week, so it will be safe to use the internal Floo system. If you can return by, say, eleven o'clock?"

"Eleven o'clock, then. Come along, Miss Darkglass," Professor McGonagall said. She urged Sarah toward the fireplace.

Sarah took up a handful of Floo powder. She felt trapped. Could she escape from the castle this way? Or not? And where would she go, if she did? She shot Snape a last glance, willing those dark, uneasy eyes to recognize her anger, wondering if she also wanted him to see the despair. It was his fault, all of it.

Then she threw the powder down. "Professor McGonagall's office!"

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry if the characterization of Dumbledore is a little over-the-top here. I've read some stories by authors who really don't like him much; the results are often amusing, and I think a little of that has rubbed off on me. 

Oh, and in spite of what Dumbledore is hinting at, Sarah is _not_ going to become a Mary Sue and proudly save the day. I wouldn't do that, after all this effort! Besides, Severus wouldn't let her. Saving the day is _his_ job, isn't it? ;)


	14. Ch 13: Turn Around and Face Your Fate

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** You know and I know that Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. 'Nuff said.

**A/N:** Wow, lots of new people reviewing! Many thanks to serena black, jennigirl, Vampiryyn (the camels gave me warm fuzzies!) and the ever-faithful lucidity for chiming in. And mega-thanks to cecelle for lending her discerning eye to this chapter as well.

L. M. Montgomery fans will want to look for a line I stole. :)

* * *

**Chapter 13: Turn Around and Face Your Fate**

Sarah knew that she was in for a tongue-lashing. As she stepped out of McGonagall's fireplace, it seemed as if all the talkings-to that she had missed out on in this office had suddenly caught up with her and were about to come crashing down on her head.

"Where are your things?" asked Professor McGonagall, as she dusted herself off.

"At The Three Broomsticks."

McGonagall sent for a house-elf to retrieve them, then settled behind her desk.

"Sit down," she requested.

"Professor McGonagall..." Sarah began, desperate to say something for herself before her Head of House could start in.

"Sit down." Sharper. She gestured with her wand, and a tray with tea, toast and marmalade appeared in front of Sarah on the desk. "Eat."

Sarah plopped onto the hard chair. Her eyes filled up with tears. This was like a nightmare, and no one would let her wake up. She didn't want to eat anything.

Yes, she did. What little she had eaten of the soup last night had been used up instantly by her nerves. It must be well on past nine o'clock. She could almost taste the tanginess of the marmalade, and her body begged for the liquid warmth of the tea.

"Go on," said McGonagall. "I'm not going to shout at you on an empty stomach."

Sarah was grateful for the respite, but as soon as she had propped up her courage with enough tea and toast, she attempted to take the initiative in the inevitable unpleasant conversation.

"Professor McGonagall," she said, "please believe I never intended this to happen."

"I should hope not!" Professor McGonagall retorted, apparently undeterred from taking Sarah to task, now that the girl had recovered. "What were you thinking, Miss Darkglass? To do such a thing?" She shook her head in obvious perturbation.

"I didn't think..." Sarah began miserably.

"No, clearly you did not," McGonagall cut her off. "Do you realize what it means, for a student and a teacher to engage in a romantic relationship? Of course, Professor Snape is much more culpable than you. As an adult and a teacher, he _knows_ better. But surely you can see how inappropriate it is?"

"Yes, I suppose," Sarah answered, finding herself unexpectedly reluctant to back down in the face of this onslaught. "But I'm of age, Professor. I'm not a child."

"As long as you are at Hogwarts, you are a ward of the school in the eyes of every teacher, regardless of your status outside these walls. Parents place a great deal of trust in their children's teachers. And a teacher who takes advantage of one student, might well take advantage of another. I know that may not apply in this instance," McGonagall said, putting up her hand as Sarah tried to protest. "But even beyond that...well, I won't even go into the issue of trading favors for grades. Yes, I know your marks in Potions have always been high. But the truth never prevents people from speculating. And at the present moment, everyone is ready to assume the worst." McGonagall's lips grew thinner still. "Do you _realize _the problems a scandal like this could cause for the school right now? For the headmaster? High Inquisitor Umbridge would have all our heads on pikes in front of the Ministry. And here you sit, showing no remorse whatsoever for your actions!"

The accusation struck Sarah hard. She had never intended to put the school in danger. It had never occurred to her that the ramifications might stretch beyond her own expulsion and Snape's dismissal. "Professor..."

McGonagall was not finished. "Have you no sense at all that what you did was wrong?"

"_Yes_," Sarah said. "Professor, I wasn't raised to behave like this. I'm sorrier than you know that I felt compelled to do what I did."

"_Compelled?_" McGonagall queried. "Sarah, if you can give me any reason to believe that Professor Snape..."

"No, that isn't what I meant!" Sarah said, beginning to despair of her explanation. "I don't know if this makes sense. It wasn't a spell, but it was like...fate..."

"Fate!" the older woman snorted. "Fate is made up of the choices we make ourselves. You knew it was wrong."

"Yes, I did," Sarah admitted, her shoulders drooping.

"And yet you did it anyway. I would not have expected that of you."

"You didn't expect anything of me!" Sarah's temper flared unexpectedly, given such a ready outlet. "You didn't know I existed!"

"That is not true," said McGonagall, clearly taken aback. "No matter what Professor Snape theorizes. But you have never given me cause to worry. You seemed to handle...well, your mother's death...unusually well for a child of that age. I expected something, then, some sort of outburst. And it never came. Not until now."

Sarah felt the fire in her dying down. Had all of this just been some kind of delayed reaction? A fine way to honor her mother's memory—following the same path to destruction. Aunt Portia was right.

"Professor McGonagall," Sarah turned to the issue she could deal with, "I didn't plan for _anyone_ to find out. No one _would_ have found out if Professor Snape hadn't..." _Confessed? Gone insane?_

"I hope you can assure me that no one _will_ find out. Professor Dumbledore is very serious in what he says. This must be kept strictly secret. If you have ever hinted to any of your friends..."

"_What_ friends, Professor?" Sarah asked bitterly. "I have dorm mates, not friends."

"I hope," said McGonagall, sounding less sharp, "that _that_ is not what drove you to this."

"It would be a little late for that, wouldn't it? In my seventh year?"

"I simply cannot fathom why you would want to..." McGonagall looked as flustered as if she were being called upon to explain the facts of reproduction to a roomful of first year boys, "well, to...become intimate with Professor Snape." It was strange to see an old woman blush.

Sarah's trunk appeared with a pop in the middle of the floor near the fireplace.

"Ah, there it is. I assume you have dress robes that will be suitable." McGonagall went over to it, overrode the locking charm on the trunk with a tap of her wand and opened the lid. "Find them quickly. You may use my bathroom to clean up and change."

Sarah shifted uneasily, but did not stand up. "Professor McGonagall, I don't _want_ to marry him."

McGonagall fixed her with an exasperated look. "Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you made the choices that led to this situation." The utter lack of sympathy in her voice suggested that no one was going to come to Sarah's rescue, no matter what her protests or explanations. "How could you be so irresponsible? With the appropriate charm to avoid the risk of—"

"Charm?" Sarah echoed dully.

"Surely you know the Tempus Conceptus charm?"

Sarah's blank look produced an expression of bewildered dismay on her Head's face.

"Oh dear, I suppose your aunt wouldn't have taught you that, would she have?"

"No," Sarah answered sullenly.

"Yet I was told you were very adamant about refusing any means of...well, amending the problem."

Sarah did not know what to answer. _I think that was **my** choice to make_, she retorted inside her mind, but she wasn't sure if she could face whatever the reaction to such a statement would be.

In obvious frustration at the lack of cooperation, McGonagall began rummaging through Sarah's trunk herself. "Is this it?" She held up a thin white cotton garment pin-tucked at the yoke and covered with white embroidery.

"That's my nightgown!" Sarah objected.

"Ah, well then..." McGonagall set it aside and dug deeper. "Here." She pulled out Sarah's dress robe, a heavily-pleated array of midnight-blue silk. "This will do very well." She extended the robe to Sarah, who did not take it.

"Please, Professor, I don't see why I have to marry him. I'm perfectly capable of managing on my own."

"As a single mother?" McGonagall made a disgruntled noise. "You haven't even a place to live, after leaving school. And it isn't very likely that you would be accepted for an apprenticeship with a baby in tow. Severus, whatever I may think of his participation in this scandal, is at least attempting to do the decent thing, and you seem very ungrateful for it."

Under McGonagall's frown, Sarah gave up. She took the dress in her hands.

McGonagall showed her into her own quarters, which were replete with tartans. Pillows, the upholstery on the sofa, the hangings on the bed, even the various former biscuit tins in which McGonagall kept her toiletries. The soap in the shower was scented with heather.

Sarah came out, feeling a good deal better in body, although still considerably rumpled in spirit. Her dress robes were a bit wrinkled from being packed in the trunk, which McGonagall put right with a pressing charm. She pulled Sarah's still-damp hair back and fastened it with one of her own hair clasps, a jeweled thistle. Sarah, staring at her own reflection, was alarmed at how old she looked with her hair done up. Not _really_ old, of course, but worn. Then again, she hadn't had more than a couple of hours of uneasy sleep on the Knight Bus. Sarah turned from the mirror and stood up.

"There now. You look...well, I won't say respectable." McGonagall held her at arms' length. "So very young. I cannot imagine that you will be happy. But, for goodness sake, I can't help hoping it." With a quick squeeze of Sarah's shoulders, she let go. "Come along. Best to get this over with, for good or ill."

* * *

As Sarah went through the Floo, she heard Professor Dumbledore speaking, although at first his voice sounded weirdly far away, as if he were inside a jar. "...tell her about the order." 

Then Snape's voice, growing clearer. "It isn't safe. I would prefer to pick my own time."

In the midst of this comment, Sarah stepped out of the headmaster's fireplace.

"Ah, there you are." Dumbledore beckoned to her from across the room. He had put on his own dress robes, or at least the ones he wore at the start-of-term and end-of-term feasts.

And there stood Professor Snape, with a sourly suspicious expression on his face, as if he suspected her of intentionally eavesdropping. Whatever orders Dumbledore had just been talking about, if the choice of when to tell her about them were up to Snape, she had just set back that time by...well, possibly forever. At first glance it was not obvious that he had changed, but as he moved forward, she saw that he had. His robes were of a slightly better cut than his usual ones, with subtle piping in the seams, black on black, almost invisible except as the textures caught the light.

Professor McGonagall stepped out of the fireplace behind her, almost bumping into her. Standing there transfixed, she hadn't moved out of the way as she should have. McGonagall gently urged her into the room.

"Shall we begin?" asked Dumbledore.

Sarah felt like a puppet on strings as she came to stand in front of the headmaster. When Snape took his place beside her, she wanted to run. It shouldn't be that difficult; she had run from Aunt Portia. And yet she stood there, like a dolt, too stupid to get away. She was running out of places to run to.

"Sarah Darkglass," Dumbledore said, holding the license in his hands, "Severus Snape has asked for your hand in marriage. Will you accept him as your husband?"

_No! No._ And if she said that, what then? She could imagine the headmaster's frown. After all the trouble he had been put to, to solve a problem she had caused. And Snape... She remembered the fierce look in his eyes when he had insisted that she was going to marry him.

"Yes," Sarah whispered, wondering whose voice she was hearing.

"Severus Snape, Sarah Darkglass has consented to your request. Will you take her now to be your wife?"

He didn't look at her as he said it. "Yes."

"Then join together, blood to blood, heart to heart, life to life." Dumbledore offered Snape a small silver knife. Without hesitating, Snape nicked his ring finger. Sarah shivered as a thin line of blood welled up.

Somehow the knife was in her hands. She had been too young to understand much at the only marriage she had ever attended, but she had read enough novels to know that in this particular form of the wedding ceremony—one that tended to be favored by those on the darker side of the Wizarding community—this part was supposed to be a true binding. The ring finger led to the heart—it was supposed to be romantic, for goodness sake. And here she stood, with the knife blade to her finger, not daring to push it through the skin. She did not want to give him her heart. He already had enough of her blood.

Then his hands were on hers, a strength that had always made her melt. Her finger stung; it was bleeding. Awkwardly, he was linking their ring fingers together, tip to tip, cut to cut. _No, oh please, no_.

"_E duobus unum!_" A tingle, a sparkle, a warmth flowed through her with Dumbledore's words. Then her hand was her own again, the cut healed to a tiny scar, free of either of their blood. Burned away...or absorbed? She trembled.

"Do you have rings?" she heard Dumbledore ask.

Snape retrieved something from a pocket. Then he was sliding a silver band with a green stone over her still-throbbing fingertip. He settled it into place, then pressed a similar circular shape into the palm of her hand. Puppet Sarah slid it onto his finger, her own fingers trembling so that she could barely keep hold of the silver circlet.

It was over. It had taken all of five minutes, if that. Dumbledore had omitted to mention a kiss. Sarah was grateful; the idea of being kissed in front of McGonagall and the headmaster made her skin crawl. Or was it the idea of him kissing her at all now? How could he do this to her? She had never asked him for this. Why had he asked this of her?

Dumbledore was suggesting a light luncheon. It was already laid out, in another part of the office. Sarah sat down at her place. As nausea at the thought of eating anything clawed at her stomach, she finally felt as if she were coming to her senses again.

She stared down at her hand, a stranger to her with its new adornment. She had not had a chance to examine it properly. The wide silver ring was set with a cabochon emerald and deeply, darkly engraved: two elongated S's flowed gracefully around the band, in the form of two snakes entwined at their ends. It was at once the most beautiful and the most horrible piece of jewelry she had ever seen. Had he had this custom made in London, then, during the break? _Sarah and Severus? Sarah Snape?_ She shuddered.

McGonagall was offering her a tray of fancy sandwiches. Sarah moved one woodenly to her plate, where she picked at it. Professor Dumbledore, she realized, was talking about Quidditch. Anything but what the event just past signified. McGonagall and Snape took opposing points of view in the resulting debate, although neither seemed especially enthusiastic in their arguments. Sarah listened, not out of interest, but because she had no other choice to distract herself from thinking further ahead than the next breath. She felt like a first year, sitting in this rather fearsome gathering of her elders, not like a young woman who had, in more ways than one, recently joined the ranks of adulthood.

At last the interminable, uncomfortable meal—the second one in less than a day—was over. The mangled remains of her sandwich were scattered across her plate, although she was beginning to wish she had eaten it instead.

Standing in front of the fireplace, Dumbledore gently took her hands in his. They were thin and wrinkled, but there was strength there, too.

"I wish you well," he said, blue eyes steady and serious, "whatever happens. A great deal is being asked of you in return for your absolution. But I believe you are equal to the task. Take care of her, Severus," he added, turning to the Potions master, "as best you can."

_Absolution? A lifetime of penance was more like it_. Sarah looked up into Snape's eyes for the first time since the ceremony began. There were no answers in those dark orbs, not even to her silent question of their destination. She took up a handful of Floo powder and cast it down.

"Professor Snape's office!"

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry that wasn't very romantic! My own wedding, although it took place under other circumstances (for instance, I wasn't pregnant!) was just about that horrific. And I'm going on 18 years of marriage here, so it _can_ work out! Don't expect this to be easy, though. 

The Tempus Conceptus charm (in case your Latin doesn't stretch that far) lets you know whether you are presently fertile or not.

Sarah's wedding ring was inspired by the class ring I had made when I _finally_ graduated from college. You can take a look at the guy's very nice work at www . 5xj . com. My ring is on page 15.


	15. Ch 14: Your Chains Are Still Mine

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, his world, his friends and his enemies all belong to JKR and whoever she's sold certain rights to. Not to me or to any of the rest of us poor fic writers. I don't do this for gold. I don't even do it for reviews (although those help a lot!). I do it because these characters and places are just so dang interesting to play with.

**A/N:** Thank you, thank you, thank you, reviewers! Welcome aboard, Owlbait (I like your story so far, BTW). And muchas gracias to those brave souls, cecelle and lucidity, for their input on this chapter.

Although there's a teensy bit of humor (I had to take on Vampire!Snape and Alcoholic!Snape in my own crazy little way), this is a _**very** dark chapter_. Things do improve substantially after this. But in preparation for what's to come, I'm going to have to ask you all to write "Severus Snape is not a nice person" one hundred times each. With Dolores Umbridge's quill. I mean it. Murtlap essence will be passed around at the end of the chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Your Chains Are Still Mine**

By the time he followed her through the Floo, she was lifting aside the unicorn tapestry. To her frustration, but not her surprise, the wall was solid, the doorway closed. He strode across the room.

"It isn't extraordinarily difficult," he snapped. "Have you never bothered to pay attention?"

"I had this sense," she replied, giving each word its own little twist, "that you appreciated your privacy."

"Well, you put paid to that, didn't you?" Before she could more than open her mouth in indignation, he said, "Now watch and remember." He tapped the pattern slowly on the stone blocks. "Then four protective herbs in alphabetical order: betony, blackthorn, elder, rosemary. But," he said, "you advance the series by one each time. So, this time...elder, rosemary, betony, blackthorn." The doorway obediently appeared. Heaving a sigh, Sarah passed through it. At the inner doorway, they went through the same procedure.

"So...Sarah is mistress of the keys," he said tartly, as they entered his room.

"Not all," she said, thinking of the wards on the outer doors.

"No," he said, as if daring her to ask him. "Not all."

Sarah did not rise to the bait. She had far grimmer things on her mind than passwords. Her trunk stood accusingly in the center of the floor. This was no nightmare; it was horribly, appallingly real.

"How could you _do_ this to me?" The walls seemed to close in around her like a cell. "_Why!_"

"It seems you left me with little other choice." He looked, inexplicably, as trapped as she felt.

"_What?_" She remembered his answer, the last time she had asked this question. "_No_ you don't; don't try to blame this on _me_! I haven't asked for _anything_ from you! And now you've left me with _no_ choice." She turned from him, raising her hands to the sides of her head as if to hold it together against the thought: _you're **married** to him._ "I don't...want to be...my _mother_."

"And I'd rather you didn't become _mine_." The words were almost off-handedly sharp.

"What?" She turned, baffled.

But his demeanor shifted abruptly from introspective to commanding. Although he hadn't moved more than a step forward, he seemed to loom over her as if he had just stood to his full height.

"In light of this alteration in our relationship," he said, "I shall make a number of things extremely clear to you, Sarah. First: anything I choose to tell you will be told in my own time and own way. You will not plead or urge or wheedle for information or pry into my private things. Additionally, you will never attempt to tell me what to do or interfere with my personal business in any way. You will most certainly not _nag_ me. And finally, if you wish to survive, you will do _exactly_ as I tell you at all times and without question."

Sarah could not believe the speech she was hearing. Well, no, she could believe it, but... Her own father had always given her mother plenty of lead, so that she only choked when she unexpectedly reached the end of it—that seemed to be the game he preferred—but other men of her father's acquaintance had kept a much tighter rein over their spouses. It should hardly be a surprise to find that Snape was that sort. But still, she was staggered.

"Do you understand me, Sarah?" he demanded.

Sarah's rage boiled over all of a sudden. She jerked the horrible ring from her finger. "_I am not your bloody Slytherin property!_" she screamed, and threw it at him.

He caught her before she got to the doorway, and there was a tussle of sorts as she struck out at him. "_Don't you touch me!_"

"Fine," he said, propelling her back into the room. In hopeless agony of spirit she flung herself down on the bed and, screaming wordlessly, curled into a ball around her knotted stomach muscles, her eyes streaming hot salt tears that burned her face like acid. She scarcely heard him moving about the room, unaware of his proximity until she heard his voice beside her. "I will not tolerate this!"

_You'll bloody well have to_, she thought dimly. But he forced her to sit up.

"Drink this," he said, pressing something to her lips. Her probable reaction was all too predictable; he moved the bottle out of the way before she could knock it from his hand.

Not poison, that would be too kind for him. The only thing she could think of that would be suitably cruel is if he made her drink the Gravixterminus now.

"You bastard," she gasped out, "you damnable bastard!"

"_Look who's saying it_," he snarled, giving her a jolting shake. "It's Dreamless Sleep, and you _will_ drink it, no matter _what_ I have to do to make you." He offered the bottle again.

She jerked it from his hand and, tempting as it was to smash it on the floor, she gulped it down, choking. She did smash it, then, the empty bottle shivering with a satisfying crash.

"There! Are you happy now?" She could feel the potion beginning its work, drawing the tendrils of her exhaustion together into a silken cord that grew fatter and fatter, weighing her down.

"No, Sarah, I am _not_ happy," Snape growled. He drew her backwards onto the bed, cradling a body that was no longer able to resist him in his arms. "Bloody hell, to think my life should come to this."

Before she could think of any useful reply, she was fast asleep.

* * *

When Sarah opened her eyes, it took her a moment to work out where she was. She felt an instinctive surge of panic—she had fallen asleep in his bed...what time was it...why hadn't he woken her up so she could get back to...?

_Oh_.

The memory of how she had got here flowed down on her like a landslide. She lifted her hand to where she could see it...at least he hadn't forced the ring back onto her sleeping finger. She rolled over onto her back, a jab against her scalp reminding her of Professor McGonagall's hair clasp. Her dress robes, though rumpled, were no more disheveled than when she had lain down.

She was still trying to decide if it were worth getting up, and if she did whether the best course of action would be to look for a bottle of poison for herself, or to flee and beg mercy of Professor Dumbledore, or to sneak up on Snape and hex him six ways from Tuesday, when he appeared in the doorway to the workroom.

"I hope you've managed to regain some self-control," he said. His usual horrid self. He gestured at the bedside table with his wand, and a tray appeared.

"Breakfast?" she asked. She had no idea of the time, and no will to make any physical effort to find out.

"Only if the middle of the night is an appropriate time for breakfast."

"I slept all day?"

"_Days_," he said.

"You've kept me _drugged?_" Sarah sat up, her anger rushing back; it felt miserably stale.

"You were overwrought and exhausted, and the dose was a strong one. I haven't been pouring potions down your unconscious throat."

"What day _is_ it?"

"Considering that it's nearly midnight, take your pick: the feast of St. John the Apostle, patron against poisoning by the way, or the Slaughter of the Innocents."

_A day and a half_. _And damn his way of putting things_. Sarah picked up a sandwich from the plate. Strawberry jam. She took a bite, then poured some tea. That was a mistake—she suddenly realized how badly she needed to use the bathroom.

* * *

The first thing Sarah noticed as she washed her hands was that there was no mirror in which to see just how horrible she looked. She had never been in here before, curiously; odd how his bathroom had seemed too private to invade. 

"You don't have a mirror," Sarah complained, at the doorway. "I don't suppose there's some other _horrible_ secret I ought to know?" She'd heard a few of her fellow students suggest the possibility that their Potions master might be a vampire. Which was manifestly stupid, if they'd paid any attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was just that the lack of a mirror, on top of everything else, irked her.

"I have a great many horrible secrets. Most of which you will never learn." He advanced on her, and she flinched, but he slipped past her into the bathroom. "Unfortunately, my appearance isn't one of them, despite your pleasant habit of pretending to be blind. But at least I needn't stare at myself every time I have to piss." He opened a small cabinet by the sink and produced a plain hand mirror, which caught his reflection, a flash of pale skin and dark hair, as he hung it by a hole in its handle on a hook that protruded from the wall. "I realize this is hardly adequate for a young lady," he sneered, "but it will have to do."

"If you think I like _adoring_ myself in a mirror..."

"I was under the impression that girls do." He took her arm and urged her in front of it. "Some of them merit it more than others."

Considering the face that looked out at her, Sarah wondered if the comment was intended as a compliment or a vicious jab. Her reflection was washed of color, her eyes rimmed with flecks of salt, her hair hanging in untidy sections that had worked loose from the hair clasp. She raised her hands automatically to the mess, popping open the clasp and trying to smooth her hair back into it.

"Leave it," Snape murmured, taking the clasp from her fingers.

"That's Professor McGonagall's," she protested, as he ran a hand over the hair he had set free. He lingered a bit too long at the nape of her neck. "No! You are _not_ seducing me!" She strode out of the bathroom angrily.

"I knew it would be like this," he muttered as she left. In a moment, he came out; he placed the hair clasp on the shelf next to the crystal.

"You could have made me drink it," Sarah rounded on him. "That day in your office. Why didn't you? A little _Imperius Curse_ wouldn't have been any problem for _you_, would it?"

"Apart from the fact that I'd rather not see the inside of Azkaban?"

_Had he never been held there, even temporarily?_ "I could hardly have told anyone about it, could I?"

"At that point, it was difficult to tell just _what_ you might do."

"So you didn't consider Obliviation? _Murder?_"

"You act as if that would have been preferable."

Sarah turned away, bringing her laced knuckles to press against her lips. _Would it have been? _But then, why was he trying to blame her?And something else was eating at her mind, had been since the headmaster had mentioned it yesterday.

"Was it true, what Professor Dumbledore said? Was that all this was ever about, from the beginning? Because I'm Malcolm Darkglass's daughter?" She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

His eyes seemed to close up like shutters. "Considering that I didn't know for certain he'd been a Death Eater until you told me, that would have been impossible."

"You knew I was from a dark wizarding family, though," she persisted. "You didn't consider that?"

"Believe me, there is very little I didn't consider before I summoned you to my office," he said, with lofty sharpness. "A great deal more than _you_ seem to have done."

Sarah was not to be distracted by the accusation. "I just want to know if I'm being _used_."

He lifted his eyebrows sarcastically. "It's taken you _this_ long to wonder?"

"I don't mean _that_." Of course he was using her; she was using him right back for the same purpose. So far it had been a mutually acceptable exchange. But this... "I mean what Professor Dumbledore said about...about You-Know-Who."

"Ah, yes...that." He took the crystal down and studied it. "We will not discuss that matter at present."

"_Why not?_" Sarah blurted out. "Professor Dumbledore made it sound as if he expects me to...to...to pretend to..."

"I said," Snape repeated frostily, "that I'm not discussing it." He replaced the crystal. "Pay heed to what I told you yesterday, Sarah."

The warning in his voice should have stopped her. It did give her pause. But it outraged her as well.

"_I have the right to know!_" she protested. If Professor Dumbledore expected her to pretend to go over to the other side...the ramifications of being forced into such company, of having to actively participate in their activities were horrible beyond contemplating, and she would not be silenced until she knew what plans the headmaster had been hinting at. Plans that Snape was most certainly privy to; plans of which he might well have been the author.

He looked vexed enough that she startled as he set himself in motion without answering her, but it was the wardrobe he descended on. He rummaged inside and pulled out a tall bottle bearing a fancy label, then removed both the small glass that had rested atop it and the cork in a single fluid movement. He tipped the bottle, which was perhaps three-quarters full, and an amber liquid poured out into the glass. He tossed it back with the same rapidity, the same grimace as if it had been one of his own viler potions, then pressed the glass to his forehead, closing his eyes convulsively.

Sarah watched, disturbed. She had never seen him drink; it did not seem like him to do so. And if he were drinking to get drunk...she didn't want to be around when he reached that stage. She took a hesitant step toward the doorway.

His eyes jolted open, and abruptly he threw down the glass. The familiarity of the crash it made as it shattered across the floor caused her to wince. "There! Are you happy now?" he threw her own words back at her mockingly. "Or perhaps you've come to realize how very little you have to be happy about?" he observed astutely, watching her frown. He replaced the bottle in the wardrobe. "It's a pity that you don't have the sense to realize when to _leave things alone_."

She tried to keep her mouth shut...and couldn't. _He has no right to keep it from me_. "I deserve to know how deeply you've dragged me into this!" she said.

"What you deserve..." he echoed, "what you deserve..." He advanced on her menacingly, cornered her against the bed. "Shall I tell you what you deserve?"

_He's right, I have no sense at all. I've got to get out of here. Wand?_

He caught the movement of her hand and snagged her wrist.

"Let me go," she demanded, trying to twist free of his grip.

"No, you _deserve_ to hear this." His other hand shot up and locked around her jaw, just a bit higher than a chokehold, freezing her in place. He brought his lips close to her ear. "At some point it will happen. If we're fortunate, it won't be until well after the school year ends. It may be sooner if we attract the wrong sort of attention. But sooner or later, some of my..._associates_ will become interested in the true nature of our relationship. Can you guess the answer the headmaster intends for me to give to them?"

_Was he trying to blame this on Professor Dumbledore now?_ "No," she whispered, as his hand tightened on her face, demanding an answer. But she was beginning to imagine the possibilities, and she was shaking with the effort not to scream.

"Truly not?" He traced a slow circle on her jaw with his thumb. "I would have thought it would be abundantly clear that it will be necessary to convince the interested parties that I have, in fact, seduced you in _every_ sense of the word. That you have become persuaded that you are indeed your father's daughter. And if—although for all our sakes you'd better pray it never happens—_if_ you should be brought to the Dark Lord's attention, and _if_ I am required to bring you before him, then you had better be prepared to do whatever is necessary to demonstrate convincingly that you are his loyal servant. Because if he suspects that you are not, if he suspects me because of you... Do you realize what will happen then, Sarah?" His voice had dropped to a harsh whisper. "He undoubtedly will order me to kill you. And I _will_ do it, Sarah, without hesitation."

A strangled sound broke from her throat as he released her neck. _Oh no_, _oh no oh no oh no_. _Sweet drowned saints_, she was in deep. Far deeper than her mother had ever been. Holding back her heart had not protected her, not from that. _Damn it, Snape, if only **you **knew when to leave things alone!_ She looked up into his eyes, her own filled with terrified anger...and quailed at what she saw there.

He wanted her: the incident in the bathroom had told her that. But now it was as if frightening her this way had ignited something more, a lust that was so dark that it might well take her death to satisfy it.

"_No!_" she said, but he was already grappling with her, bearing her back onto the bed. "Stop it! You're hurting me!" Her wrists felt as if they might break from the pressure of being pinned down.

"Don't fight me, Sarah," he snarled between clenched teeth.

"Let me go!" She struggled, and suddenly he had. But he also had wand in hand faster than she did.

"_Immobilus!_" He stared down at her, panting. "This takes us back, doesn't it?"

"Please don't!" she pleaded. But he took her wand and tossed it on the bedside table. "_Please!_"

"If you behave, you may get it back," he sneered. He bent close over her, his lank hair shrouding her face. She could taste the pungency of the whiskey on his breath. Then, as he found her breasts, she cried out in pain. In the past week they had become so inexplicably tender that she flinched from anything that might bump against her chest: the ungentle touch was agony. "That _really hurts_," she begged. "I _mean_ it."

"I said if you behave!" he warned, but then his eyes narrowed as if in comprehension of something. His frown deepened. "I don't think you do want to behave, though, do you?" He slid his hand down to press against her abdomen. "No...you've already gotten everything from me that you wanted." As he spoke these last words, his fingers convulsed in the fabric.

"_That's not_ _true_," Sarah said. But the force of the accusation in his eyes was like a stab to the heart of her conscience. It wasn't true, was it? But then why was she fighting him now?

"I sincerely hope not," he said, as if he didn't believe a word of it. "But your enthusiasm leaves something to be desired."

"I just don't want it to be like this," she pleaded.

He studied her, dark eyes tracing her features, his expression shifting like ripples on water. Then, as if winter had descended in a moment, the water froze, locking his face into decisive unpleasantness.

Snape shed his robes and then his shirt. Sarah shut her eyes; they had never taken their clothes off, not like this. Not that they had ever talked about it, but it was an unspoken precaution. Now, with the school nearly empty, with her awareness of the meaning of the shadow on his arm, with their names joined together on a piece of paper, there was no purpose in the pretense that they weren't really doing anything so long as their clothes were on.

The fact that her major muscles were paralyzed by the spell gave him some difficulty with her clothing. She couldn't help giggling in dark hysteria at his efforts, until he resorted to magic. Exposed as she had never been to anyone, it ceased to be remotely amusing.

"Please," she whispered in desperation. "Please don't, please..." _Professor? Sir?_ The words felt dead on her tongue. "...Severus, _please_..."

He bent again, breath to breath, and smoothed a fingertip across her cheek. "I don't remember you ever calling me that," he murmured silkily. Then, with his lips almost brushing hers, he whispered, as if it were a caress, "_Finite incantatem_."

It was difficult to know what to do with the power that had been restored to her limbs. She tensed, trying to push him away, but without any real strength. She was disturbed at the way she had to fight her body's instinct for surrender as he took her. She had never done otherwise with him. It was such a curious thing: she didn't want to cry or to scream. She just really, truly did not want this to be happening. But the ambiguity of her own reactions smote her soul with sudden agony.

_Is this rape or not?_

It seemed a long time before he was finished, when she wanted it to be over so badly. But even when she thought he was done, he didn't move off her.

"Look at me."

She had been trying not to, unable to bear the lust on his face, the fierceness in his eyes.

"Look at me, Sarah." There was nothing else to be done, so she did. She could not unravel his expression now. But he had her attention, and he went on. "Never push me that far again."

Her fault. Why did he have to make it her fault? But that was him. And she had known better.

"I just had to know," she whispered, the tears she had not shed while he was hurting her suddenly burning her eyes. "I _had _to know."

"I know." The acknowledgement was as unexpected as his lips pressing against her forehead, murmuring against her skin. "I know. But I wasn't ready to tell you."

* * *

Wrapped only in her robes, Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, finishing the stale jam sandwiches, reheating the tea just enough to make it possible to tolerate washing the bread down with the bitter stuff. Aunt Portia would be appalled at such abuse of a teapot. More appalled, probably, than at the abuse of her niece. Sarah grimaced. 

It was two o'clock in the morning, and he was still in the workroom.

_I can't sit here all night staring into space_. She wasn't sleepy after her long rest, although a sense of exhaustion lingered. More than anything, she wanted to go upstairs, out on the battlements in the cold night air. There might even be stars. But Professor Dumbledore had made it clear that she was a prisoner for the duration of the holidays. She felt as if she were suffocating.

Finally she padded toward the bathroom, hoping that his latest cleaning spell hadn't missed any shards of glass. At the sound of her footsteps, her jailer came to the workroom doorway.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked, irritated.

"Not when I'll be hexed the moment I lose consciousness, no," he retorted sardonically.

Sarah couldn't deny that she had considered a number of spells for the purpose. But unless she was prepared to flee Hogwarts, with nowhere else to go, the headmaster's decreed arrangements for her future would make acting on her impulses...unwise, to say the very least.

"It would be _nice_," she said, "if I could so much as have a _shower_ without being babysat."

"I won't stop you." There was an edge to his voice, a narrowing of his eyes that added, _from washing my touch off your body_.

Unsure enough of her own motivations to even attempt a reply, she turned on her heel and stalked into the bathroom.

* * *

She felt better, cleaned up, even though she'd had to scrub her hair with ordinary soap. She dried off, then, in a fit of pique, whispered the silencing charm over her feet before she left the bathroom. Knowing that she couldn't get away with even a whispered spell out here, she resorted simply to opening her trunk as quickly and quietly as she could. Her best nightgown was still on top, where McGonagall had left it, and she snatched it out and slipped it over her head. 

"How appallingly virginal." He was in the doorway again.

"Excuse me," Sarah answered sarcastically, shaking the white fabric until it draped smoothly down to her ankles. "I haven't had time to acquire a new wardrobe. I'm not in the habit yet of shopping in Madam Mim's Boutique." The very idea perturbed her—Madam Mim's featured little bits of satin held together by little bits of lace, in glaring gemstone colors, and with (rumor had it) all sorts of questionable spells sewn into the elegant French seams.

"Perhaps not Madam Mim's." He appeared to blanch slightly, if that were possible. "But something that makes you look a little less..."

"Like a child?" she spat. "Well, since you're so determined to control every aspect of my life, next time you go to Diagon Alley, you can choose my lingerie to suit yourself."

"I meant nothing of the kind, and you know it."

"I know nothing of the kind. All I know is what I heard in your little speech about how you expect me to behave."

"There is nothing unreasonable in what I've required," he said vehemently. "Is there any privilege I've proposed depriving you of that you have enjoyed up to now?"

"If I hadn't been doing anything that bothered you before, why lay down the law to me _now_?" Sarah asked, exasperated.

Snape drew himself up stiffly. "It seemed all too likely that you would believe this change in status has given you the right to pester and intrude."

"Well if I did, I'd hardly be the first person here to throw their supposed _rights_ around!"

Sarah was not about to back down from the staring contest which resulted from this accusation. Neither, it seemed, was Snape. But his expression, from the very beginning of it, was closer to surrender than she had ever seen. "I give you my word," he finally said, teeth clenched, "I will never do such a thing again."

Sarah knew it was the closest she would ever hear to an apology. "I sincerely hope not."

"That does not mean, however," he went on, "that you can ignore my instructions."

"There!" Sarah said, extending an accusing finger. "That's exactly what I won't tolerate!"

"You damned well better learn to tolerate it," he snapped.

"You have no business telling me what to do!"

"Quite apart from the fact that you are my wife," he said silkily, "I remind you that are also still my student, in case you'd forgotten."

"I meant outside of the classroom, and you know it."

"It makes no difference. I am now more particularly responsible for you outside of the classroom than I have ever been within it."

"Well thank-you-very-much, but I never asked you to be, did I? I am perfectly capable of being responsible for myself."

"Responsible for yourself? In the situation as it presently stands? You're about as capable of surviving this without my guidance as I am of...of choosing lingerie." He grimaced.

Sarah brought her hands to her mouth, trying to stifle a sorry little laugh at the sudden mental picture. He must truly be at wit's end to make a joke like that.

His sneer softened almost to a smirk, and then, quite uncharacteristically, he sighed. "I really am very serious in what I say. Regardless of your progressive little opinions, if you fail to follow my instructions, to learn what I have to teach you, or to obey my orders at some crucial moment, it will not be within my power to protect you from the consequences."

Sarah felt the mirth drain out of her. Solemnly she asked, "I'm not going to like the lessons, am I?"

"I very much doubt it." His eyes looked tired. "We will talk about this tomorrow."

She glanced up at the clock that sat on the shelf, a curious conglomeration of metal gears and glass spheres and pipes, through which flowed assorted sands and liquids. "It _is_ tomorrow," Sarah pointed out.

"It'll be tomorrow when I wake up. If I wake up." He fixed her with a questioning eye. "If I fall asleep, what can I expect from you?"

"If I were going to do something, I'd hardly tell you, would I?"

"You're a Gryffindor," he said, as if that were adequate explanation.

"The Sorting Hat almost put me in Slytherin, you know. You've warned me yourself about making assumptions."

"Do I have to take more drastic steps, then? Take your wand again? Petrify you?"

Sarah tried to shrug off the cold, hard knot in the center of her chest. "Immobilization spells only work for so long, you know."

"Damn it, Sarah, it's four o'clock in the morning! If I find it necessary to take another alertness potion, we are both likely to regret it."

"Very well, then," Sarah said. She was finding that teasing him, while it offered a certain degree of amusement, was not only potentially hazardous, it also suddenly seemed unnecessarily cruel. _As if he doesn't deserve being treated so in his own turn!_ But it was pointless. "I'll drink another sleeping potion, if you like. _And_ you can take my wand if you insist. Although I'd rather you didn't."

He stalked off into the workroom without replying, and Sarah sank down on the edge of the bed, letting her head droop against the bedpost. She listened, trying to sort out what he was doing in there, and from that, what he had decided to do about her. Cleaning up something in progress, it sounded like. Jars put away, but no bottling of finished potions or cleaning of cauldrons. She heard him move into the office, then return. A moment later he was coming back through the doorway.

"Something simpler," he said, crossing to her and offering a dram bottle. "A prolonged lack of dreams is supposed to be unhealthy, at least according to Poppy Pomfrey."

Leaving it in her hands, he moved around to the other side of the bed and, from the sound of it, began to change clothes. Sarah opened the vial and put it to her nose. Yes, a basic sleeping draught, slower and subtler than Dreamless Sleep.

_What if he...?_

_That's hardly likely, is it, if he's as exhausted as he seems?_

She felt his weight shift the bed on the other side. With some trepidation, she turned, half expecting to see pale flesh. Instead she saw worn, gray flannel. An entirely ordinary nightshirt, in which he looked so ordinary himself, so little threatening that she wanted to giggle with relief. And he had no call to be criticizing what she wore to sleep in.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, taking note of the smirk that had crept to her lips.

"I thought you were always worried." Sarah extracted her wand from her sleeve and handed it to him.

"I am," he said. "But there are degrees." He tucked her wand inside his pillowcase. "Well?"

Sarah downed the sleeping potion, finding herself savoring the taste of the lavender that was its major component.

"No more broken glass," he groaned long-sufferingly.

Sarah placed the empty bottle on the bedside table, then slipped under the covers. The green velvet of the canopy went to black above her as he put out the lights. She laid very still, letting the potion feed off her lingering exhaustion and off the sheer misery that, until she had to face her thoughts in the dark, had been lurking half-unperceived in the corners of her mind. It was almost a relief to feel the potion transmuting it into lethargy.

On the edge of sleep, she startled. He had turned over and lain a hand on her arm.

"Shhh," he whispered, then, as she remained tensed, "I am not up to that. All I want is to hold you."

Although it was against her impulses to do so, she did not have the energy, mental or physical, for the violent rebuff he deserved. So, she let him hold her. And unreasonable as it seemed, after all that had happened, with so much of her suffering chargeable directly to him, nevertheless, wrapped within his arms, the flood of unhappiness she had been drowning in since Christmas Day began to ebb, like a tide flowing from a pale shore into a vast, dark ocean.

* * *

**A/N:** If you survived that minefield, you can have the murtlap essence now. I sincerely hope none of you have ever been in Sarah's situation. I hope you don't irredeemably hate Severus (although I don't excuse his actions). I hope you don't despise Sarah for her decisions. In short, I hope you're still with me, although if you're not, I understand. Things _will_ get better, I promise. 

I know that Snape knowing the saints' days is a probably a little out of character, but given the connotations of these particular two days, I couldn't resist. And although I have **no** intention of injecting religion into the Harry Potter universe any more so than JKR has done (especially since my own just _wouldn't_ fit), I can't help privately thinking of Snape as a lapsed Catholic. YMMV. Anyway, the symbol of St. John the Apostle is a serpent emerging from a goblet, which is just _too_ appropriate not to refer to.

Madam Mim was the first scarily sexy witch I ever encountered in fiction (in T. H. White's _The Once and Future King_). I couldn't resist appropriating her name for the Wizarding version of Victoria's Secret. (Pssst—the secret is that no one over thirty can fit in those clothes.)


	16. Ch 15: Let's Not Argue

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** If I've said it once, I've said it...well, over a dozen times. Harry Potter and company are the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling. None of this is meant to infringe on that copyright. All the money is hers (and well-deserved). My only reward is reviews.

**A/N:** I know that last chapter was pretty traumatic, for some probably more than others. Thanks to all those who reviewed (Susan, Owlbait, Lady Whitehart, cecelle, lucidity and littledarkone) for making the effort to respond. I'm not Catholic, but I'm a medieval scholar with a tremendous appreciation of the beautiful old aspects of that faith. However, I didn't know that Severus was a saint name—I thought it was just a Roman name. Apparently there is more than one St. Severus (isn't the internet great?). I find it somewhat amusing that the chief Orthodox saint of that name was accused of playing both sides of one of the many tangled theological issues of his time.

This chapter is a little calmer. In my experience, you can only sustain such monstrous amounts of tension for so long until your body and brain say, 'Excuse us, we're going to take a breather for a bit, whether you want one or not.'

* * *

**Chapter 15: Let's Not Argue...Please Pretend**

Sarah woke feeling queasy, as if she'd been dreaming about doing one too many loop-the-loops on her broom. Maybe she had been; her dreams had dissolved beyond recall as she opened her eyes, leaving her with a vague sense of unease, suggesting they had not been pleasant.

The situation before her waking eyes was far from pleasant either. The earlier panic at being where she shouldn't smote her again, only to be replaced, as memory kicked in, by a dull sensation of helplessness and a wave of claustrophobia. She sat up, trying to breathe.

"Nightmare?" Snape was dressed and sitting in his chair, reading. Sarah's wand was on the bedside table. The sight of it, the memory of why it was there, brought forth a surge of stale anger, but her body protested at the effort that sustaining it for even a few moments required, and it faded into a kind of resignation.

"No. Well, maybe. I don't know." She rubbed her hands across her face, pushed back her tangled hair. In desperate need of fresh air, she asked, "How can you live without windows?"

"Very securely," he answered coolly, returning his attention to the book in his hands.

Sarah stood up and went to her trunk, and with fresh clothes in hand, made for the bathroom to change, thankfully unhindered. It was just after eleven (presumably in the morning) by the clock. She splashed her face at the sink, hoping that cold water would prove to be an adequate substitute for cold air. With damp tendrils plastered across her forehead, she looked worse than ever in the little mirror. The queasiness had not abated.

Oh.

_Hardly unexpected, is it?_

Sarah dried her face, frowning at her reflection.

_I guess that's one way to while away the rest of the holidays: puking my guts out._

Except that she didn't feel like throwing up. She thought she would feel better if she could, like purging herself of something bad she had eaten, getting it out of her system. But her stomach lay calmly in place, while something in the base of her skull contradictorily insisted that she was really not at all well.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she found the bedroom rearranged. A small table and a chair that had not been there before had appeared in front of the fireplace, with Snape's own chair drawn up to it and the ottoman pushed out of the way. The table was laden generously with breakfast. She slipped into the empty chair and began loading her plate with eggs and bacon and stewed tomatoes.

"Sorry," she said, chagrined at his surprised look from across the table. "I haven't eaten decently in days."

"I said nothing," he remarked, flipping another page in his book with one hand, picking up a piece of toast with the other. "I expect you to eat well."

The comment was almost enough to make Sarah put down her fork, but she was too hungry. As she began eating, she was a little afraid that she might only be giving her stomach something to heave up later. Curiously, though, she felt better. She dreaded the end of the meal for other reasons, however. Cooped up in this suite of rooms for another week...

"Is there some reason," she asked, as the dirty dishes vanished from the table, "that I can't just say I've come back to school early? I don't think I can cope with being locked in the dungeons like this."

"It is safer that you remain here." He pushed back his chair and stood up. "I shall see to it that you have enough to occupy yourself."

Sarah didn't entirely like the sound of that, and she stiffened as he came around behind her. He did nothing more threatening, however, than lay the book he had been perusing in her hands.

"A Christmas gift," he said. "Or a wedding present. Whichever you will."

She was now able to read the title on the unassuming brown volume: _Potions for Pregnancy, CXIIIth Edition_. Definitely useful. She found herself vaguely embarrassed that she had nothing to give him in return. An exchange of gifts had seemed out of the question, although she had seen more than one thing during her Christmas shopping that had made her think of him.

She opened the cover and was surprised to see an inscription on the flyleaf.

_For Sarah_, it read.  
_In expectation_.  
_Severus_

Simple and almost..._sweet_. Which was not the man she knew at all. It raised suspicious hackles on the back of her neck. In expectation of _what?_

"Thank you," she murmured. "I'll have to leave this here with your things, you know."

"I realize that."

She looked up him. He was watching her, as if trying to read her reaction to the gift, beyond her words.

"Does this mean," she found herself asking quietly, "that I'm to call you Severus now?"

He seemed to consider this, unfamiliar expressions chasing one another across his face. Finally he turned away. "I think not, for the time being. Students do not address teachers by their given names under any circumstances. You could not account for even a single mistake."

"I don't think I would make a mistake," Sarah answered, less because she wanted to argue for the privilege than because she wanted to defend her good sense.

"You call me that, to yourself?"

"No," she admitted.

"What _do_ you call me?"

She was hesitant to say. "Not disrespectfully," she cautioned, finding it difficult not to say _sir_, "but, well, just...Snape."

"Not disrespectfully?" he mocked.

"_No!_ More like...like _chums_, I guess," she tried to explain, wincing instantly at her choice of words. "Forget it. Please."

"I'm trying to," he said, with a grimace. He had moved toward the nearer bookshelf, and now he took something like a folded packet of parchment from between two of the volumes. Returning with it, he placed it on the table in front of her. "I was given the impression, when I obtained this, that the headmaster considered it to be _his_ wedding present."

Sarah unfolded the packet, hardly daring to guess what it might contain.

"Apprenticeship papers," she breathed. _A Hogwarts apprenticeship_. "I don't deserve this, you know." She spoke coldly, trying to convince herself more than him. "There's only one reason for it."

"I fail to see what difference the reason makes," Snape responded, obviously irritated at her reaction.

"It makes a difference to me." Sarah refolded the papers carefully, as if they were something precious that belonged to someone else. "I would rather get a position I _earned_ instead of one that I obtained in someone's bed."

"If you had bothered to take a closer look, Sarah," he sneered, "you would have seen that your apprenticeship is contingent upon receiving top marks on your Potions N.E.W.T. I don't need to remind you, I hope, of the difficulties that will arise if you disappoint me."

She breathed a quiet sigh. "I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good. Top marks at N.E.W.T. level require flash and flair that I don't have."

"Then it's a good thing you're not taking them today, isn't it?" he returned.

Sarah found, unaccountably, that her feelings were wounded._ It wouldn't kill him to give a reassuring compliment once in a while, would it? Well, I guess it might._

"Apart from the fact that your concentration needs drastic improvement," he went on, "since the examiners will not accept you dropping your ingredients on the floor, you nevertheless consistently produce satisfactory results. That is of far more importance at this stage in your training than a lot of impressive slap and dash. And since, in an informal sense, your apprenticeship begins _now_, I assure you that by June you will have developed enough 'flash and flair,' as you put it, to achieve any marks for which you're willing to make the effort.

"Now," he said, "for the time being, that is your text." He pointed at the book she had set on the edge of the table while she examined the apprentice papers. "I am going out. Don't expect me back until late. I, however, expect you to have read the first three sections before tomorrow morning." For a moment, she thought he was going to bend over and kiss her, but instead he retrieved his cloak, slung it around his shoulders, and stalked out through the workroom without so much as a goodbye.

"Damn you, Severus Snape," she said out loud, as soon as she heard the outer office door close. "I hope vultures feed on your liver!"

All the same, having thus relieved her feelings (at least slightly) and having nothing else productive to do, Sarah picked up her book and flopped across the bed. She winced as her breasts reminded her that such careless movements had become a bad idea.

_Owing to the fact_, the "New Introduction to the CXIIIth Edition" began, _that all contraceptive potions invented to date_—Sarah quickly flipped back a page to determine that this edition had been published the previous year—_are known more for their side effects than their effectiveness, (hardly anyone, for instance, cares to walk about with a bright green nose or large violet squares on their skin, to name the least objectionable outcomes), most witches, excepting the very ugliest, will eventually find themselves facing the prospect of producing a new generation of witches and wizards. This book has been assembled, in its many editions, over a period of several hundred years by potion experts working under the direction of the most skilled midwives of their times._ The words "under the direction" had been underlined, and in the margin was the terse comment: _ha_.

_Thank you so much for writing in my present, Snape_, Sarah thought crossly. Although as she proceeded to get into the text itself, she found that his marginal notes appeared to have merit more often than not.

The first section was titled "What to Do If You Don't Want to Be Pregnant," and offered a series of emmenagogues and abortifacients, from the safest to the more risky. She couldn't help noting (although for some reason it did not make her feel appreciably better) that the potion he had offered her was rated highly on both safety and effectiveness, hence its popularity; most of these she had never heard of.

The second section, unhelpfully, provided potions designed to increase one's fertility. Most of these carried caveats about their sometimes excessive effects on desire. _If you are dealing with an older wizard_, one of these commented, _you may want to make sure he has the appropriate potions to keep up with you_. Sarah, her face flaming hot, took a break in her reading to have the dinner which had (due apparently to some arrangements with the house-elves) appeared on the table about ten minutes before.

The third section was "Dealing With the Discomforts of Early Pregnancy." _Finally!_ Sarah was a little distressed to discover all the things she might find herself suffering from. The tenderness of her breasts turned out to be an entirely normal symptom, with a fairly simple potion capable of relieving it. However, the various permutations of "morning sickness" (_hah_, thought Sarah, _it's nearly eight o'clock and_ _I **still** feel queasy_) required a careful match to a range of potions that varied in their effectiveness. In short, if one was experiencing the wrong set of symptoms, one might find oneself left being relatively miserable, regardless of the art of potion-making.

* * *

Snape had still not returned when, two hours later, exhausted and restless from the mental strain of reading for so many hours at a time, Sarah set aside her book and wandered into the workroom. _Keep your hands to yourself_, she reminded herself as she wandered among the worktables. 

It was easier than she expected to identify the contents of the various cauldrons—mainly because most of them had a piece of parchment nearby on which was copied out the instructions for the potion in question, with the steps that had already been completed ticked off with a bold checkmark. Wolfsbane Potion was one of these, in progress on its own private table in the corner, and Sarah backed away from the cauldron quickly. It was supposed to be phenomenally tricky to make, and she was afraid that even breathing on it wrong might mess it up.

_Phytolactus Potion_, Sarah read, next to another cauldron that was simmering quietly, giving off tendrils of fine pink vapor. It was the potion for relieving breast pain. She studied the instructions, wavering. The next unchecked step was: _Simmer for a minimum of five hours, then remove from heat, add one ounce of swan's down and stir counterclockwise for four minutes_. It had already been simmering at least that long. She peered at the bubbling contents.

_You are stark raving mad_.

_I'm also bored out of my skull. And I can do this._

_Are you **sure** you aren't suicidal?_

_Ha ha ha_. _Anyway, it's not as if the finished potion isn't for myself_.

With no little trepidation, Sarah got out the scales and found the jar of swan's down. But in the intensive process of measuring out the ingredient to her satisfaction, right down to the weight of a single feather, the hazard she was taking ceased to have any hold over her mind. She quenched the fire under the cauldron, then—at just the right moment—tipped in the swan's down and began to stir.

* * *

"_What the hell do you think you're doing?_" 

The words cut through her reverie like the slash of a sword. She was grateful that she had just set down the minute timer after flipping it over for the last time.

"If it isn't obvious," Sarah answered, trying to keep her voice steady, her eyes still on the timer, her hand still describing circles over the cauldron, "then I'll tell you in about 45 seconds."

To his credit, he refrained for the specified length of time, although she could feel him fuming behind her.

"I have _not_ given you permission to use my workroom," he bellowed, as the last grains of sand fell into the bottom bulb. "Nor have I ever suggested you could take the liberty of interfering with my work! Indeed, I told you precisely the opposite!"

"This is for _me_, isn't it?" Sarah snapped, turning to confront him. "I finished my reading, the potion was ready for the next step, and I had absolutely _nothing_ else to do."

He bent over the cauldron, obviously looking for fuel for his rage.

"I did it right," she said. When he looked up, she knew she had.

"If you're so convinced of your ability to step in and complete my work, then finish it," he snapped, jabbing a finger at the cauldron.

It was difficult—more so than it had ever been in class—to focus on her work while he hovered over her, ready to flay her with words at the slightest hint of error. _Concentrate! Get back where you were_. Somehow she managed it. Everything went correctly. An hour later, she was staring down at the finished potion, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve to prevent it from falling into the cauldron.

"Well?" he asked. He had, at some point, grown tired of looming and now was sitting on the edge of the table behind her.

"It'll need to be bottled while it's still warm," Sarah reflected.

"And you're certain you've followed the instructions precisely?"

"Certain enough to drink it, if that's what you mean."

"Then go ahead," he dared. The curl of his lip worried her, made her second-guess herself, made her go down the list again, to be absolutely sure.

Casting him a defiant look, she found a clean bottle of the appropriate dose size, filled it from the cauldron, and (with a deep breath and a prayer that he would stop her in time if she had somehow gotten it wrong without realizing it) she gulped it down. She coughed at the hideous taste, but she managed to set the empty bottle on the table without breaking it.

"Congratulations," Snape said.

"What?" Sarah looked at him sharply, worried.

"Well, unless you've been practicing with illicit mixtures outside of class, that's the first time you'll have taken a potion of your own brewing. Oh, excuse me..._half_ your own brewing," he corrected. He still didn't sound pleased, but his eyes had lost their disdain. Slowly he pushed himself up from the edge of the table. "Surely you'd like to know whether it worked?"

Sarah opened her mouth and took a step backwards, aghast at her own stupidity. There was only one possible reason he would have bothered brewing up that potion: so that he could touch her without hurting her. And while that might suggest some degree of thoughtfulness, the assumption that he would be touching her again was outrageous.

_You idiot, of course he will be. How long are you planning on denying yourself to spite him?_

_Long enough!_

Feeling suddenly and foolishly like a fish out of water, she shut her mouth. "You promised," she protested coldly.

"Yes, I did," he whispered in return, but a thousand times colder, propelling himself past her, disappearing into his room.

How did he _do_ that? She could shrug off the most horrible things he might say. Then he would throw out some offhanded comment that meant nothing on the surface, yet it would pierce her like an arrow.

With a sigh, Sarah began bottling the potion. No sense in it going to waste; she would probably need more later. All the time she was cleaning up, however, she was torn by the urge to leave things where they were and go have it out with him. It was beyond understanding, why she wanted to fight with him. He could crush her like a bug if she got him angry enough. Yet it was almost as if the tension between them _must_ be finite, that the sooner they used it up, the sooner everything would get better. What she meant by better, she wasn't sure. Maybe it had something to do with how it had felt last night, falling asleep with his arms around her. It was as if once they used up their quota of arguments, she could have that forever.

Which was a ridiculous idea, she chided herself, putting the cauldron away under the table. He was about as likely to change into someone she wouldn't quarrel with as that mark on his arm was to disappear. And if he were really...

_No, don't go there. Don't even think it._

_...but if he's double-crossing Dumbledore_...

_**No!** I said don't think it! Don't let it matter. If you let it matter, you're lost._

That, at last, got through. She took a series of deep breaths, trying to steady herself.

_You know how to survive shit. You take everything one moment at a time—what you **have** to focus on right then and nothing more. And you don't let anything reach you_.

Leaving the labeled bottles on the table, since she had no idea where he stored completed potions, she steeled herself to walk back into the bedroom.

* * *

He was sitting at the little table in near-darkness, staring into the fire with a cup of tea hovering disregarded in his hand. Sarah poured herself a cup. At first the silence was uncomfortable, but after a few minutes, it seemed the most normal thing possible to sit with him, saying nothing at all. Yet, when he seemed to come to himself, lifting the cup to his lips and grimacing at the cold liquid, the need for words rushed in again. 

"I think what's left in the pot is still warm," Sarah offered. She wasn't sure why. It just seemed the decent thing to do.

He vanished what was in his cup, and Sarah picked up the teapot. _One moment at a time_.

"Better," he admitted, sipping at it. Now it was Sarah who sat with her cup neglected in her hands.

"You haven't asked me," he said, the hint of a sneer in his voice, "where I've been."

"If I ever get that curious, I'm sure I will," Sarah answered. "And then you can have the pleasure of telling me it's none of my business. But at the moment, I really don't give a damn."

He turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes reflecting bits of firelight. It stirred an odd fancy—_as if he were burning in hell_. But the manifold ramifications of the thought were too horrible to pursue. She did not hate him badly enough to wish that on him. And if he already...

"I'm tired," she said, standing up, interrupting whatever it was that he might have been about to say. "I'm going to bed."

And if he took that as an invitation...

_I won't fight it._

_No. As stupid as it is, you want him as badly as you ever did. And it might take your mind off this spinning in the back of your head._

Sarah came back from the bathroom in her virginal gown and climbed under the covers. Severus Snape hadn't moved; he was watching the fire again.

He might not take the invitation. She had hardly given him any reason to suppose that she would even allow it. Which would mean another day of sniping at one other.

_You think anything's going to change that?_

He set aside his cup, finally, and went out through the workroom. She was a little surprised to hear him come back, murmuring the closing spells for the doors. A stop in the bathroom, then he went around the bed.

Sarah watched him change into his nightclothes, slightly shocked at her own voyeurism, although he was turned away from her. When he turned around to pull back the covers, she pretended her eyes had been closed the whole time. She felt the bed shift under his weight, felt the other half of the covers being drawn up again.

He didn't say a word.

There were no sounds in the darkness but their own quiet breathing, the occasional constrained rustling of fabric and the popping of the fire. If she had to lie here, discomfited by her own longings, she might eventually fall asleep, but it wasn't going to be anytime soon.

Would it be giving in, to turn to him?

What if he decided to be stubborn in return? She imagined how crushing that would feel, how brutal he could make his refusal.

She imagined how crushing her own refusal must have sounded.

_Well, he deserves that, doesn't he?_ The thought was bitter.

_So, it's better if the two of you just keep on doling out what the other deserves?_

That kind of war of revenge, played out on such intimate terms, could only end with one of them dead, and it might not be the relative kindness of a physical death.

_Would you rather wait until he asks you again? Is the power of refusal worth anything if he doesn't keep his promise?_

Somehow she thought he would. But she wasn't sure. Desire could drive a man to almost anything. Or a woman.

_Is there any power in asking?_ That was like begging, wasn't it?

Or, to put the question differently, would there be some power in taking the initiative?

Speaking into the heavy silence was more difficult than she thought it would be, and her voice was horribly loud in her own ears, although she spoke even more softly than she had intended. "I guess I am curious whether it worked."

She was wondering if he was going to answer at all, if perhaps he had fallen asleep, when he said, "I think you could figure that out without my assistance."

In point of fact, she had, in the bathroom. But she wasn't about to say so.

"I could," she admitted, bracing herself for another war of words, "but it wouldn't be the same."

"I am in no mood to play games, Sarah," he growled. "What are you really asking?"

"You know perfectly well. Although it's more offering than asking. I'm certainly not going to beg if you aren't interested."

"It sounds more as if you're trying to make _me_ beg."

"No, I'm not. It's just an offer. Take it or leave it." _Although if you leave it, I'd better be able stop myself from begging_.

He sat up, and Sarah wondered if he was going to take her very literally and just leave altogether. But he braced himself against his knees and looked down at her.

"I'm finally beginning to see why the Sorting Hat was tempted to put you in Slytherin."

Suddenly not liking the physical dynamic of their relative positions, Sarah sat up herself. "I've had a good teacher."

"More than one, I think," he returned. "Although a compliment like that is rare enough that it seems a pity to quarrel with it."

Did he _have_ to conjure her father's ghost? Though admittedly she had set the stage for it, reminding him that he was her teacher. "I'd rather not quarrel, so if that's all you intend to do..." She laid down again, turning her back on him, no longer sure what she wanted to happen.

"You get no thrill from it whatsoever?" he asked.

"What?" Sarah craned her neck around.

"Quarreling. Don't tell me it does nothing for you."

Startled at the sudden shift of paradigm, she turned over. At the same moment he moved toward her, and she found herself underneath him.

"I take it this is more what you had in mind," he whispered.

The speed of her heartbeats would put the lie to anything she might say to contradict him. And still he hovered there, doing nothing but watch her.

"Ready to beg now?"

"You...!" Anger surged through her, stiffening her limbs with the urge to resist. The tingle left by the rush of adrenaline, however, was only proving his point. But there was, she found, only so much pushing she was willing to suffer. She forced her voice to be cold. "Not even if you killed me."

Whatever she had expected—more volleys of words, or perhaps him rolling away from her, leaving her to suffer until she conceded his mastery of her will—it was not a long and quiet contemplation of the chill her declaration had left between them. For that was what it seemed, as he stayed where he was, unmoving and silent. Then the ramifications of what she had just said occurred to her. She had forgotten his threat. She had wanted to forget it. And there was no way on earth to apologize for bringing it up now.

"I've never done anything in my life," he murmured, "to deserve this." The words ought to have been stinging, bitter. Instead, as if he were responding to something else altogether, there was a strange sense of wonder in his voice, and his fingers moved slowly to trace the outlines of her face. She reached out her own hand to push away the shadow of his hair, hoping to better read his expression in the dim light.

It was no one thing—in the near darkness she could not see well enough to be sure of anything in his eyes or on his face—but the impression was formed, regardless, from what was half seen, half felt, half imagined. She had become fragile in that dark gaze, under that delicate touch: something incalculably precious, something that might vanish in vapor and smoke. The sensation of insubstantiality was disconcerting. _I'm Sarah_, she thought, _just Sarah_.

He kissed her, and that was real enough to dispel the previous notion. What came after was...odd. Sometime in the past weeks, without her ever being aware of exactly when it had happened, the intenseness of novelty had been transmuted into the comfort of familiarity. She knew his touch..._sweet Merlin, she knew his body_...had more than a vague idea what to expect.

"I..." Maybe it was his curious gentleness or maybe her own desperation that emboldened her to ask for something she had, until now, simply accepted would happen or not, as it suited him. She wondered if it would be beggarly enough a request, as steady as she forced her voice to remain. "I want...I need to...finish." As her face flushed hot, she felt as if she had stepped off a plank into the center of a whirlpool of embarrassment that could only spit her out again in a devastation of shame.

He smoothed her hair back from her face and pressed his lips to her forehead, across her temple. In the merest sigh of a whisper against her flesh he answered, "Of course. By the way," he went on, as he reached her ear. "I think the potion worked."

* * *

**A/N:** I may be incorrect in assuming here that Potions students don't actually try out their potions on themselves in class. But it seems as if that would be an awfully hazardous practice, considering how badly student efforts seem to go wrong, even in the fifth year classes. 

Phytolacca is Poke-Root, used homeopathically for mastitis.


	17. Ch 16: Down that Path into Darkness Deep...

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I just do this for fun. JKR equals lots of money and fame and the copyright. Me equals poor and unknown and not worth suing.

**A/N:** Thanks to cecelle, Susan, lucidity and Owlbait for reviewing the last chapter. Another semi-calm chapter here (despite the title), but with hints of darker things to come.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Down that Path into Darkness Deep as Hell**

For the next five days, Sarah made potions under Snape's supervision. Unfortunately, things did not always go smoothly. His tendency towards impatience with her when she faltered in the slightest resulted in a variety of unhappy moments, during which Sarah took to retreating either to his office or the bathroom, until she managed to cool her own temper enough to go on with her work. She would have been just as happy, on occasion, to walk out past the office door. But it wasn't going to happen, and the sooner she learned to deal with it, the better.

The new year had come in with scarcely any acknowledgement, although Professor McGonagall had shown up with a tin of shortbread. "We need all the luck we can get this year," was her only comment upon handing it over to Snape. With a troubled glance at Sarah, she bid them both farewell and retreated with all the air of one having completed a necessary but hardly an agreeable duty.

"Does she do that every year?" Sarah asked after she had gone.

"Yes," Snape replied sourly. "If you don't want these, I'm going to toss them in the bin."

Whether it was an actual hunger for something sweet or merely a superstitious urge or a sense of loyalty to her Head of House, Sarah rescued the tin and kept it under what had become, de facto, her side of the bed.

In reality, she was finding that nibbling on something for most of the day was the only way to get relief from the sick feeling that had settled in the back of her head. An assortment of potions had done little or nothing to help, and with Snape overseeing the process, that was unlikely to be due to poor potion-making. Finally she settled on attempting a simple decoction of ginger root, which, though it did not remove her misery altogether, at least prevented it from getting any worse.

* * *

Nothing further had been said about Professor Dumbledore's plans, and Sarah found that, in spite of her initial insistence on knowing the truth, she was now just as happy that they had never returned to the subject. On Tuesday of the last week of the holidays, however, something happened which brought the problem sharply to the fore again. In the evening, as they worked, Sarah heard an abrupt hiss and turned to see Snape clenching his left forearm. For a moment she thought he had somehow burned himself, but the look in his eyes said that something far more deadly was afoot. 

"What is it?" she asked anxiously.

"He's calling," Snape said, wincing. It wasn't necessary for him to say who. "I have to go."

After he had left—with a folded bundle of cloth in his hands and not another word—Sarah began putting away the potion supplies almost woodenly, suspending the processes that were underway as necessary, not trusting herself to concentrate adequately to keep on working. When she was done, she retreated into the bedroom. She found herself pacing aimlessly. Could she risk Flooing someone...McGonagall? Dumbledore? Snape probably wouldn't thank her for that. If he had meant them to know, he would have given her instructions.

What was he telling You-Know-Who? Sarah had heard rumors about what had happened last spring. The headmaster had told them plainly at the end of the year that Cedric Diggory's death in the Triwizard Tournament had been due to the return of the dark sorcerer who haunted the nightmares of the whole Wizarding world so thoroughly that few dared to say his name. The Ministry of Magic had been denying it ever since, and with the_Daily Prophet_ trying to suck up to Minister Fudge, and the presence of High Inquisitor Umbridge as the new Dark Arts teacher, no one in the student body seemed eager to remember what Professor Dumbledore had said. There were even dark hints going around that Harry Potter, the boy who had (in some unknown way) defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his infancy, was himself somehow to blame for Diggory's death. A lot of rot, undoubtedly. Sarah, for her own part, had done her best to ignore Potter ever since he came to Hogwarts, wincing in his behalf at the excessive attention that was being bestowed on him. He clearly did not appreciate it, and he hardly needed anyone else—least of all a former Death Eater's daughter—ogling at his every move.

Assuming that what Professor Dumbledore had told them was true—and Sarah had no reason to think it was not—You-Know-Who was out there right now, building up his power again. And Snape was...helping him? pretending to help him? What was happening at this moment?

Sarah shivered.

Was he telling You-Know-Who about her? He didn't want to do that, or so he'd said, but the powers of...that person...were legendary. You couldn't lie to him, they said. At least Snape had taken off his ring—she had noticed that a few days ago, although she wasn't sure when he had done so. She had not seen her own again. She wasn't anxious to have it back. The circumstances of their marriage had not been such as to make her feel sentimental. It hardly seemed possible that they were married, although the days and nights together without interruption would never have happened in the lives they were leading before. It was disconcerting to think that Dumbledore and McGonagall knew that he was shagging her down here in the dungeons. Probably disconcerting for them, too, if she thought about it. She would rather not. And the idea of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named being aware of that fact, being pleased about it, was too horrible to ponder for an instant. She would be happiest if he remained unaware of her altogether, as her mother had surely intended.

Yet the headmaster had said that such a revelation would be to Snape's benefit...

Disloyal as it might be—though he had done nothing in particular to inspire her loyalty—Sarah had no desire to make herself a sacrifice for her lover's safety. He was perfectly capable, she was sure, of protecting his own arse.

_When is he coming back?_

In a dark mood, she paced along the line of the bookcases. Despite the usual allure of books, she had stoutly resisted the temptation to peruse these shelves very closely. She found, as she examined them now, the expected mix of Potions books and Dark Arts texts. But the uncomfortable aura that emanated from the collection felt like a fine sheen of oil spreading over her skin.

A title, _Hexing for Protection_, caught her eye. Uneasily, she drew it off the shelf. Would he feel the same way about his books as he had about his workroom?

_You know what? I don't care._

She took the book to her bedside and laid down with it on the covers, touching the pages gingerly as she started reading, her mind braced against being persuaded to who-knew-what viewpoint the author might have taken. She let herself relax a little as she determined that the book was not propounding earnestly in favor of the Dark Arts. Still, anxiety kept her on edge, taking a toll of her energies. And the questions played on ceaselessly in the back of her mind: _What's he doing? What's happening to him? What will happen to me?_

* * *

She didn't realize that she had fallen asleep until she woke with a groggy start. He was easing the book out of her hands, and she surprised him by sitting up abruptly. He looked too exhausted to tolerate surprises. 

"You're back," she said with relief.

"Obviously," he said. "I see you've been putting your time to some advantage."

Sarah blinked sleepily at the book he had taken. "I had to do something," she said. "I couldn't concentrate on the potions."

"Hmph," he snorted. "And if lives depended on your ability to concentrate under any circumstances?"

"Do they?" she asked, unable to cope with the idea in her present state of alertness.

"Someday they very well may." Unexpectedly, he pulled her to her feet. "Come with me."

He took her out the portrait door and up the back stairs.

"I'm not allowed to be out here," she pointed out, stumbling along, still trying to wake up properly. "What time is it?"

"Nearly three. No one will see you. I thought you'd been complaining about the lack of fresh air?"

He led her along side passages and up little-used stairs until they came to the entrance to the Astronomy Tower and began to climb. Now that she was fully awake, she was tempted to ask him what this was all about. But speaking aloud was apt to draw attention...in the event that there was anyone's attention around to draw. Even if there weren't, she would get lectured later about the risk she had taken. And one thing she had learned was that Snape wasn't likely to answer questions until he was good and ready to. It was all too probable that this...whatever it was...had something to do with where he had spent the evening. Having already had such an ugly scene over the subject that first night, Sarah knew to her chagrin just how easy it was to anger him regarding it. Consequently, she kept her mouth shut until they came out in the dim moonlight on the top of the tower.

The arctic air hit her like the blast of a spell. She didn't like to complain—not after her repeated requests to sneak upstairs in the middle of the night so she could have a chance to breathe—but within seconds she found her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

"Here," he said, swinging off his cloak and draping it around her shoulders. She was surprised at how warm it was, a little warmer than his body heat should have made it, even after climbing up a dozen or more flights. She noticed, too, that he seemed less cold than he ought to be without his cloak.

"How...?" she queried, holding up the front edge of the cloak before she brought it tighter around her.

"How would you cast a warming charm?" he asked in return.

"On myself," Sarah said, as if that were obvious. But another idea started to dawn on her.

"And is that effective?"

"No, warming charms aren't usually very effective."

"Why?"

"I...I don't know."

"Could it be because you're trying to interfere with something that already has an internal heat source? Something, in fact, _living_?"

"So you..." Of course, he must cast the spell on his _clothes_. "Fabric is more stable. It holds the spell better." While his poor students froze all winter in the Potions classroom, he stayed perfectly warm. "Why doesn't everyone know that?"

"How can I be expected to account for the stupidity of others? I didn't bring you up here to teach you Charms. Thankfully that is Professor Flitwick's job, not mine." He grimaced.

"But that's bloody brilliant!" Sarah said.

"Having the command of a few items of esoteric knowledge does not qualify as 'brilliance' in any subject. Never deceive yourself into believing that to be the case."

Sarah was sobered by the caution, certain that he meant more by it than for her to stop raving on about the warming charm.

"Why did you bring me up here?" she asked. "Does it have to do with...with You-Know-Who?"

Snape frowned deeply. "First lesson," he snapped. "You will call him 'the Dark Lord.' I am quite sure that you heard the term in your childhood, and you had better get used to saying it again."

"Did you tell him about me?" Sarah glanced fearfully up at the night sky, where the waxing moon hung fat and pale above the western horizon. An odd and terrible fancy had struck her: a huge black bird swooping down out of the darkness to carry her away.

"Of course not! Do you think I'm daft?"

"Then why _did_ you bring me up here?" Did the wards on the castle protect people standing on the battlements? She had never had reason to wonder until now. _I'm getting as paranoid as he is_.

"I thought," he said slowly, "that it might be better to have this conversation in some other circumstances than we had it before. Perhaps the cold air will keep your head clear."

So...this conversation. The one they'd been avoiding for days. Sarah took a deep breath of the frosty air, deep enough to tickle her lungs; she resisted the urge to cough. "I'll keep my head clear," she said, "if you keep yours."

He frowned even more sharply, but seemed to ignore the comment when he spoke again. "How much of the Dark Arts did your father teach you?"

The question was unexpected, although not especially surprising. "I...I don't know. A little," she admitted, not wanting to remember. But a memory did arise, unbidden and frightening in its power over her, although there was no dark magic in it at all. It was of the first time she had ridden on a real broom instead of a baby one. She had soared up, to what had then seemed the dizzying height of fifteen or twenty feet, scared and exhilarated at once, and glowing with pride as her father called up to her, _Well done!_ _That's my Sarah!_

"It will be necessary," Snape said, jarring her back into the present, "for you to learn a little more. Enough to convince anybody who might wonder that you've been attempting to pursue the subject on your own since you came to school."

"I don't..." Sarah began, then said, "It doesn't matter, does it, whether I want to or not?"

"No, it does not. At least you understand that."

There was something odd, almost presumptuous, about the way he looked at her when he said this that suddenly made Sarah want to ask the one question she knew she must not: _Whose side are you really on?_ But that question, once asked, would remove all possible comfort from her life, whatever his answer. In all likelihood, he would refuse to say anything, or give some oblique answer that would tie her in knots trying to guess what he meant. Even if he should say outright that he was on Dumbledore's side, she could never be sure he was telling her the truth. And if, in some fit of improbable honesty, he should admit that it was _his _side...the Dark Lord's...

_How could I have told myself it didn't matter?_ But then, that was when she believed it would be easy to turn her back on him and walk away. She had never anticipated that he might not _let_ her walk away. And now she was bound to him by ties that made all her former protestations of not loving him just as moot as her feelings about learning the Dark Arts. Like it or not, love him or not, the choices he made had an impact on her now. And if he had made those particular choices...

She could not endure the agonies of spirit that knowing for certain would bring; how her mother had done so for so many years was beyond Sarah's ability to imagine. If Snape had convinced Professor Dumbledore of his true stance, then she would let the matter lie where it was. But there was another question that continued to prey upon her mind, another that came far too near to destroying her peace, and to satisfy the urge to know _something_, she asked it.

Her voice shook. "How likely is it that I'll be called before him...the Dark Lord, I mean?"

The dark eyes began searching her own. For evidence, she supposed, of how she would react. She found herself looking down at his feet.

"That depends," Snape said at last, "on a great many things. Not least of which is how long our relationship can safely be kept secret from him. There will come a point when the questions that will be asked once he _does_ learn of you will begin to focus more and more pointedly on my duplicity in keeping such obviously favorable information from him. Once you are out of school, for instance, it will be harder to excuse. The fact of your apprenticeship, of course, will help keep my secrecy on that account more credible. Not all of my associates would be sorry to see me ignominiously sacked, no matter how that might damage the cause. Nevertheless, the more reason he has to doubt me, the more likely your presence is to be required, so that he can evaluate the situation for himself."

He shifted his stance, in obvious uneasiness, and Sarah looked him in the face again.

"One thing, however, is certain," he went on, his eyes hard, his expression grim. "If the Dark Lord should triumph, you will most certainly be required to come before him and swear your allegiance. I have already told you the consequences, should you fail to be convincing."

"If he...wins...?" Sarah raised her hands to her face, letting the cloak fall open; she scarcely noticed the cold. "Will we still be _alive_ if that happens?" The image that thought conjured was terrible—everyone she knew, dead: Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, her dorm mates, her House mates, her other teachers. Her aunt, who would certainly never concede to life under the Dark Lord's rule. And herself, alive, because she was bound to the Death Eater Severus Snape.

"Unlike you," Snape answered coldly, "I would rather be alive than dead, whatever happens. And while I'm sure that your Gryffindor sense of honor will compel you to make some final, foolish gesture, I would prefer that you restrain that impulse until the only life you will waste in doing so is your own."

He meant the child, she realized. She had never supposed that it actually mattered to him. Now, it seemed, it mattered more than she did herself. And this child she had wanted so badly, could she bear for it grow up under the Dark Lord's shadow? With such a heritage as her son possessed, could he fail to be touched by that shadow, no matter who won this war? Sarah found herself shaking all over, and not from the cold. Severus took a step towards her, as if he meant to still her trembling in his arms.

"Don't touch me!" she said, taking a step back herself. "Just...just let me calm down." She laced her fingers together, clenching them until they hurt as much as the dart that had passed through her soul.

Although it took a long while, she found, to her surprise, that she _was_ calming down. When the most ready alternative was an all-too-easy leap from the top of this tower, it was equally curious and horrible to find that, whatever suicidal impulses she had inherited from her mother, she was no more interested in dying at this moment than Snape was.

_Bloody cowards, the both of us!_

Maybe that was part of why he had brought her up here—to see what he was dealing with. She'd like to think that if she had felt compelled to the edge of the battlements, he would have stopped her.

_Even if it was only for the sake of his son?_

"What else do you have to tell me?" she asked. The charm on the cloak was wearing off, and she was cold; she wanted this over with.

"What else can you bear to hear?" he said in return.

"Is there anything worse I need to know? Learning the Dark Arts, I understand, even if I don't like it. The other..."

"You are not remotely ready for the other. Preparing you for that is a process that can have no clear or definite course; it will be as complicated as the layers of your thoughts and the truth of your memories. As I determine each step you must take, you must be prepared to do as I say, however difficult you may find it." He folded his arms tightly across his chest. "So, is that something worse? I know the idea of obeying me offends you," he added snidely.

"What you're really saying," Sarah chattered out between her teeth, "is that I have to trust you."

"Why, I do believe that _is_ what I'm saying."

"Then you should just _say_ it," Sarah snapped.

His arms unfolded and his face lost its sneer. He approached her, brushed back her hair, held her face between his hands. "Trust me, Sarah," he said.

His voice seemed to be drawing her very heart out, where he could cradle it or crush it as he chose. Her breath grew ragged in the effort to hold it back. She couldn't frame an answer. She wasn't about to lie, not when she didn't know the truth herself. She didn't know what she would do when some moment came to choose whether or not to trust him. She could no more answer that than he could answer whose side he was on. She let her head droop forward, sliding out of his hands until her forehead rested on his chest. He slipped his arms around her.

It really was getting very cold. "I would rather not make the effort of another warming charm," he said.

"I'm ready to go back."

"Are you sure?"

Steadier. "Yes."

"As you wish, then."

As they began the long trek back to the dungeons, relying on the cover of night, the sleeping castle swallowed them up in its shadows.

* * *

**A/N:** McGonagall's shortbread was a meager attempt at the custom of Hogmanay, which is dealt with much more thoroughly and amusingly in Vocalion's fic "Highly Improbable" on Occlumency. Sorry to impugn Professor Flitwick's intelligence, cecelle! (I love your Flitwick, btw)—it just came out like that! And of course I had to get in a little phrase from _The Princess Bride_. And a trip to the Astronomy Tower, which is a must for both romance and angst fics. :) Up next—getting ready for the start of term, including a few choice comments about Harry. 


	18. Ch 17: Am I Fonder of Dolls

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Apart from the copies of the books and movies and posters and toys that I've bought, I don't own Harry Potter.

**A/N:** I just love hearing from new reviewers! (hint hint) The hit-count, when I access it, indicates how many people are reading this story, but somehow it seems more real when I hear from someone who's been reading all along and has just now spoken up. Many thanks to my faithful review crew: cecelle, lucidity and Owlbait. Y'all are great!

These next three chapters, as the chapter titles will suggest, are some little odds and ends of scenes leading up to Valentine's Day, some of them sweet, some of them funny, some of them slightly angsty, but culminating (at the end of chapter 19) in some more heavy-duty drama, if you've been missing that aspect of the story. This chapter takes care of a bit of organizational business before the school term begins. If you've been wondering how they're going to manage to maintain secrecy, your answers are here!

* * *

**Chapter 17: Am I Fonder of Dolls...or of Goblins**

Madam Pomfrey had not stopped frowning once since their interview began. After a short lecture on the impropriety of Sarah's behavior (adapted, Sarah suspected, from one that she kept in readiness for similar occasions), and a suggestion that there were simple means to put an end to the problem (although, judging from her halfhearted presentation of the idea, she had already been warned that Sarah would refuse), she had offered a series of potions that she pulled out of the far back corner of the hospital storage cabinet.

"This has to be taken every day, and since you appear to have no other conditions that would provide an excuse, you'll need to do so in private. It will encourage your body to carry the child closer, so you won't show as much or as soon."

"I'm already taking it," Sarah answered. And when Madam Pomfrey's brow furrowed, she couldn't help adding a little loftily, "I made it myself."

The medi-witch harrumphed, fiddling with the bottles. "Do you vomit in the mornings?"

"No."

"Any other difficulties?"

"No." Sarah felt rather absurd sitting here.

"Well, then, there's not a great deal more that I can do for you at present, Miss Darkglass. You'll need to pretend that you're still menstruating every month. The other girls _will_ notice, sooner or later, if you don't. And when you do begin to show, I'll give you a spelled girdle that will prevent it from being apparent. Thank goodness school robes are so forgiving," Madam Pomfrey sighed.

* * *

A similar interview with Professor McGonagall did not go much better. 

"The Hogwarts Express arrives Sunday evening. However, I've arranged for your things to be moved back to Gryffindor Tower this afternoon. You will pretend that you arrived a couple of days early—on the Knight Bus, as in fact you did. It's as well to have a trial run, and fortunately none of the other seventh year girls stayed at school for the holidays."

"A trial run?" Sarah asked.

McGonagall's mouth went thinner yet. "I don't approve, but... Severus will, I'm sure, explain the arrangements to you."

That was more than Sarah could be sure of. Snape had been away as often as he was present for the past few days.

"In any event, you will need to be careful. I don't know how to emphasize that to you sufficiently. I'm terribly afraid that these holidays will have permitted you to relax and become careless."

"I'll be careful, I promise," Sarah said, offended by McGonagall's mistrust of her good sense, but also a little worried that she might be right. She felt as if there were an edge she had lost somewhere. She hoped it would not be too difficult to find again, with the other students back.

"Do not forget what is at stake, Sarah. There are more reputations at issue than your own."

"I won't forget."

McGonagall sighed. "As if there weren't enough hazards for the moment," she said quietly, as if to herself.

"You've managed to get it through my head that things are very bad right now." Sarah felt a renewal of that twinge of guilt for having put the school at risk.

"You just don't know..."

"I only know what I've been told," Sarah pointed out tightly.

"What have you been told?" McGonagall asked, curiosity taking some of the sharpness out of her voice.

Now it was Sarah turn to sigh. "Not enough, I'm sure. I've figured out that..." she tripped over a way to name him to McGonagall; finally she settled on imitation of the older woman as the best course, although it was a strange sound on her tongue, "...Severus is a double-agent. I have no idea of the details; he hasn't told me. In fact, I'm not sure I know more than anyone else does about You-Know-...I mean, the Dark Lord trying to return to power."

McGonagall's mouth pursed, but she said, "If you know that much, you're ahead of most of your fellow students. And that bea-..." she visibly bit back what she had been going to say, "_Professor_ Umbridge's presence makes it impossible to take the steps necessary to convince the student body of the truth. Yes, Sarah, things are very bad indeed. I can only hope that the efforts that are being made to prepare for the worst will be enough. It is very important that you do exactly as Severus tells you."

Sarah froze, then swallowed hard.

"What's the matter?" McGonagall had not failed to notice her reaction.

"Nothing," Sarah said brusquely. But the fact that her own Head of House was telling her the same thing was disconcerting; it was as if she had lost one of her last recourses, should she find Snape's instructions unacceptable.

McGonagall, however, held her eye for a long time. "He always said the same thing. Though most students make that protest at one time or another. But you have the same look—as if the truth is there and you're daring me to dive for it...at the bottom of a deep, dark pool of acid."

Sarah blinked. "I'm sorry," she found herself saying. She had not meant to be impertinent.

The older woman smiled grimly. "Well, that's more than I ever heard from Severus Snape."

Perhaps it should have made Sarah feel the difference in their ages less, to realize that Snape had once been McGonagall's pupil. On the contrary, it merely made her realize how very old McGonagall must be.

"Oh," she said suddenly, "before I forget. Here's your hair clasp." Sarah pulled it from her pocket and laid it on the desk. "And thank you for the shortbread, too."

"Then it hasn't gone to waste this year?"

"You know he always throws it away?"

McGonagall snorted. "I would expect nothing less. I don't suppose you persuaded him to eat a piece?"

Sarah shook her head.

"Well, you'll have the luck of it at least."

* * *

It was both strange and liberating to have free run of the school again, although it made her aware once more of the need for caution. At dinner in the Great Hall, with the handful of students and staff that had stayed for the holidays, Sarah discovered that she had to consciously work to be Miss Sarah Darkglass again. Snape was absent, for good or ill, and Professor Umbridge was back, wearing a fluffy new cardigan that was clearly meant to be recognized as a Christmas present (although who would care for the woman enough to give her gifts was beyond imagining). She was attempting to dominate the gathering in her own knife-with-honey way, while Professor McGonagall and the headmaster tried to maintain a quiet dignity. 

"Is it usual," Umbridge wanted to know, fixing Sarah with her bulgy eyes, "for students to return to school after the holidays otherwise than on the Hogwarts Express?"

"It's common enough," McGonagall assured her. "Especially for older students. The Knight Bus is a good deal quicker in some cases, and more amenable to busy schedules."

"And where did you spend your holidays, Miss..." Professor Umbridge paused, clearly waiting for the name to be supplied.

"Darkglass," Sarah said, praying that a plausible answer would give her mother's protection a chance to distract even a person as tenacious as Umbridge. "After Christmas I went to visit my cousins in Northumberland," she lied. Well, it was a lie that she had visited them. With any luck, Umbridge would forget about this conversation before she had time to consider whether Sarah's story was worth the effort of checking up on.

"Surely they could have hosted you for a few more days?"

"I wanted to get back early. Avoid the crowds on the Knight Bus. Get some extra study time in. After all, the N.E.W.T.s are only six months off."

"It's good to see a student so applied to her studies," Umbridge commented absently, already looking around for someone or something else to criticize.

* * *

Sarah had left a note for the absent Snape before she had left his rooms and crept up the back stairs to begin her reintegration into normal student life. Pacing her empty dorm room after supper, half-wishing in the oppressive solitude that the other girls were there, she waited with her bookmark in hand for some reply. 

When it finally came, however, it was even more abrupt than she expected.

_Get down here._

It wasn't worth the waste of ink to argue. Not when she had nothing preventing her from leaving right now. It was still before curfew—which was not rigorously enforced during the holidays anyway—and the couple of Gryffindors in the common room were too engaged in their game of wizard chess to even notice her passing through.

She made herself go to the portrait door. The tone of his note suggested that something had him upset, and facing the skeletal figure and the leering raven was the best possible preparation: nothing would seem quite as horrible afterward. Although it was bad enough that she had to knock when the wards refused to let her in, even after she'd spoken the password.

"I assume your interviews with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall went acceptably," he said, once she was inside. He refrained from commenting on her choice of entrance.

She sat down in front of the cold, empty fireplace.

"Madam Pomfrey was put out that I know how to make my own potions. Professor McGonagall is worried that we'll get careless. That was the sum of it." She wasn't about to repeat McGonagall's injunction to wifely obedience.

"Hmph," Snape snorted. "Anything else?"

"She hinted that there were...arrangements?"

He blinked, as if his mind had been on other things. "Yes. We shall, of course, be required to return to the situation that existed before the holidays. With one small exception." He reached into a pocket, at the same time moving around behind her. The purpose was clear in moments, as he fastened a long, slender gold chain around her neck. The ornament dangling from it was the silver circlet she had thrown at him on their wedding day.

"What's this?" she asked, fingering it, unable to believe him capable of such sentimentality. Certainly not without a purpose.

"Well, you clearly didn't care for it as a wedding ring," he said. "It's an extremely complex and highly illegal Portkey. Courtesy of the headmaster. The chain is long enough—keep it hidden. If anyone sees it, it belonged to your mother. If there's any risk of it being taken from you, swallow it if you have to."

Sarah couldn't help chuckling quietly at the idea, but the expression on his face wiped even the hint of a smile off hers.

"I am quite serious. If Professor Umbridge, in particular, should happen to confiscate it, we would all be in a great deal more trouble than we could dig ourselves out of in a year."

"How does it work?" Sarah asked, examining it for any obvious signs of magic.

"You must slip it onto your finger, of course. Three turns to the left will bring you here, three turns to the right will return you to Gryffindor Tower. I warn you, however, not to use it outside the castle—it isn't equipped to deal with the wards, and the effects could prove extremely nasty. Even apart from the fact that wizards from the Portkey Office would be breathing down your neck faster than you could spit."

"So, no more sneaking down the stairs."

"Don't tell me you enjoyed that?"

"Not exactly," Sarah said. Although it was true that the risk had gotten her blood pumping a little faster.

Snape sneered—she could just imagine him thinking _Gryffindor_—before he went on. "You will still need to take precautions. A muffling charm on your bed curtains should prevent your dorm mates from being aware of your departures and returns. I shall help you set up the precautionary spells. And above all, don't neglect to check your bookmark for notes. There's no point in taking unnecessary risks."

Sarah couldn't help thinking that the main risks—encountering someone by accident in his office or while sneaking about in the hallways—were pretty well eliminated by the ability to step directly from her bedroom to his and back again. But she didn't argue; too much was at stake to get lackadaisical about it now.

"One other thing," he said, the earnest frown returning. "You are not to come here on Mondays, ever."

"What are you doing on Mondays?" she asked, puzzled. That time had never been off-limits before.

"What did I say about questioning me?" he snapped, so sharply that Sarah had the feeling she had finally touched upon whatever had him on edge tonight. Unfortunately, his malady seemed to be catching; her predetermined efforts to remain calm in spite of his mood were being sorely tried.

"I believe you said not to _pester_ you for information. Simply _asking_ is not pestering. If you don't want to answer, fine, just tell me to sod off. I'm not stupid," she said, sneering herself. "I'll get the idea."

"You want to know what I'll be doing with my Monday evenings?" his voice tightened like a noose. "I'll be paying Albus Dumbledore's price for _you_."

Sarah stood up, a sore spot of her own jabbed beyond tolerance. "I never asked to be _paid for_." She wondered whether the Portkey or the door would provide a more resounding exit. "So whatever it is, don't take it out on _me_."

"Calm down!" he growled, holding up his hands. "My point is precisely _not_ to take anything out on you. You've just seen how difficult that would be if you were here."

Curiosity won out over anger. With forced quietness, she asked, "What did the headmaster ask you do to that has you so upset?"

Snape flung himself down in his chair with a harsh sound. Sarah sank to the floor next to him, hoping that unobtrusiveness (or, damn it, a proper wifely humility) would convince him to tell her what was going on.

"Extra lessons," he said between his teeth, glaring at the empty fireplace. "Lessons I were better to be giving to you. And I don't dare to take on more than one pupil at a time. It's going to be tricky enough to eliminate any trace of you from my thoughts."

Sarah fixed him with a puzzled look. "Lessons?"

"Occlumency," he said. "The art of blocking the mind against magical intrusion."

"I've heard of it," Sarah said, although she would not for the world have told him that the source of her information was a wizarding novel. "I didn't know it was real. That's how you hide the...the truth from the Dark Lord, then, isn't it?"

He nodded shortly. "I had intended to teach you. You would take to it easily, I think. And now this."

"Who did Dumbledore ask you to teach?" Sarah asked, unable to imagine how any one student could produce so much apparent aggravation.

Snape's answer dripped venom. "_Harry. Bloody. Potter_."

Sarah sat back slightly. "Oh."

"Oh _what?_"

"Just...well...everyone says...at least everyone in Gryffindor says...that you don't like him...much."

"Amazing. For once, a vicious rumor is true."

"Except no one seems to know why." The most popular rumor—until Potter himself had become _persona non grata_ because of the_ Daily Prophet's _recent portrayal of him—had been that Snape's purported dislike of the Boy-Who-Lived was proof that Snape was secretly on the Dark Lord's side. Sarah held her breath, hoping that was not the answer.

"Do I need a special reason to dislike such an arrogant little snot?"

Sarah had never noticed that the boy possessed that quality, but it hardly seem diplomatic to say so. "Just...some people seem to think that he's...well...that he might be the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord."

"Good god," Snape said, turning his head away from her. "I had no idea I'd married a member of his fan club.

"I am _not_," Sarah averred, stung. "But could it be true? That he'll be the one to defeat the Dark Lord again, maybe for good this time? And if it's not, why is Dumbledore having you give him special lessons?"

The look he turned on her, as if she were far too quick on the uptake, justified her question. But he said, "What _Professor_ Dumbledore believes and what I believe are sometimes two very different things. In this instance, however, it was inevitable that he would ask me to cede to his judgment. Which I have done. The situation with you has simply made it more difficult to argue with the specifics of his request. In any event, I will not be fit company on Monday evenings. Mental magic is largely a function of memories and emotions, and it will be necessary for me to tamper severely with both in order to hide your place in my thoughts from Mr. Potter. The process of rearrangement can be...unsettling. I don't want you to be present for it. It would not be pleasant, I assure you."

Sarah leaned against the arm of his chair with a sigh of resignation. Almost absently, it seemed, his hand strayed to her hair.

"Professor McGonagall said something about a trial run?" she murmured after a pleasant minute or so of this.

"Yes," he said. He stood up, offering a hand to help her get to her feet. "I think it best if you go and return first by yourself. Then I will go along and help you set up the necessary spells."

Sarah raised her eyebrows. She was not sure which was more alarming: just the general idea of Snape in her dorm room or the thought of him casting spells (or ordering her to cast spells) in her own private space.

"Well?" he said.

She took a step back and lifted the ring on its chain. He hadn't said it was a condition of the spell, but it seemed likely enough (especially if Professor Dumbledore was unaware of their quarrel), so she put it on the same finger she had torn it off of over a week ago. Using the green stone as a reference, she began turning the band to the right...once, twice, thr—

As if something had grabbed her stomach and yanked, she was pulled out of Severus Snape's bedroom. She found herself standing—quite a wobbly position—on her own bed. Sitting down rather ungracefully, she examined the ring with a sigh. She wondered whether using it as the Portkey had been Dumbledore's idea or Snape's. It wasn't worth asking about; she and Severus had come to a kind of precarious truce with one another since that first horrible night, and accusations that he did not actively provoke seemed likely to upset that balance.

Certain that he would become alarmed if she didn't return promptly, she began turning her ring to the left. The resulting snatch of magic deposited her on Snape's bed. He turned, startled; apparently he had expected her to appear in the same place she had disappeared.

"Well," Sarah said. "Either the headmaster is extremely practical, or he's a dirtier old man than I would have given him credit for."

"_What?_"

"Just...the spell deposits the user on the bed. There, too. I almost fell over because I was standing up."

That elicited one of those smirks that was almost a real smile. "Then we'd better try this lying down," he said, coming over to the bed. What he had in mind, however, resulted in him lying on top of her. After a couple of extended kisses, he sighed. "Work first." He found her hand between them and rolled off just enough to manipulate the ring on her finger. The sensation was troubling, evoking as it did the moment when he had placed that ring there to begin with. But she did not have time to think about it before the world was jerked out from under her.

It was disconcerting that, apart from the jolt of the transference, the situation was not substantially different. Except that the canopy over her head was red instead of green. Snape had rolled off her altogether and was staring around with a singular, unreadable expression.

"A Knut for your thoughts."

He looked sharply at her.

"Okay, a Galleon."

"I was thinking," he said, "how long I've imagined this."

It might have been taken as a compliment, but there was something about how he said it that made Sarah open her eyes a little wider. He hadn't always been a teacher. Trying to picture him as boy at Hogwarts, though, was both difficult and bizarre. She attempted to plaster his hair and eyes and nose on a series of seventh years, but the Weasley twins' red hair did not give way easily to black, and although Nightshade's coloring and build were something closer, not to mention his Slytherin uniform, his pretty face was completely at odds with Snape's grim visage, which did not seem as if it could ever have been any younger. The customary leer in Nightshade's eyes, though, lent itself to the picture of a youth daydreaming about a girl's dorm room.

"The Gryffindor dormitory particularly?" Sarah blurted out, amazed at the idea. She had not spent much thought on his interests prior to herself. There had been a hint, that first night, at a former liaison with a fellow apprentice. It had seemed little worth troubling herself about. But now curiosity had got the better of her.

She realized, however, as his eyes shuttered over, that she had made a mistake. "Sorry, forget I asked that." She got up and paced a little, nervously.

"This _is_ your dormitory, is it not?" he asked.

"Yes." She forced herself to stop. "You know, it's just occurred to me. The castle was designed to keep these rooms off limits to people with the wrong set of anatomy. It must be having a fit."

"I suspect it's merely a spell built into the stairs," he said. He got up. "Now, first I want to see how much power needs to be put into the muffling charm. Back on the bed," he ordered. He closed the bed curtains around her. "Cast a simple muffling charm, then go and return."

"_Stifilus!_" Sarah whispered, pointing her wand at the curtains.

The operation of the Portkey with such frequency was not doing her persistent nausea any good whatsoever. Upon her return, she felt positively green. She pulled back the curtain and said, "Well? And please say, 'Yes, it works.'"

"No, it does not."

Sarah groaned. "What's wrong with it?"

"A distinct noise. Muffled, but still audible."

"What do you suggest?" she asked, too miserable to want to think.

"Try '_Munio silentio_.'" He demonstrated the wand movement.

It took her a few tries, but she got the spell down.

"Ready?"

"Not really." Sarah snapped the curtains closed and performed the spell. Gritting her teeth, she turned her ring.

When she returned, she sat for so long trying earnestly not to heave up her guts that Snape peeked through the curtains.

"Did you even leave?"

Sarah tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. "I guess that means it was effective."

"Are you all right?" he asked, seeming suddenly to notice her unwell expression.

"My head doesn't like all these Portkey trips back-to-back." Her stomach was settling down, but the dizziness was worse than ever. She got up and rummaged in her trunk, which had been returned to its usual place at the foot of her bed, and gulped down a couple of generous swallows of her decoction of ginger root. "I'll be fine in a minute. I hope."

He wrapped her in his arms for that long, long minute. The comfort was so unexpected that she wasn't sure how to react. Restraining the urge to tell him that this was all his fault, she let herself lean heavily against his chest, wishing she could simply collapse, knowing that she should not allow herself the luxury. Finally, she began to feel capable of conscious action. She raised her head and said weakly, "What next?"

"No more Portkey journeys for the present." He studied her bed frame. "The chief danger, of course, is that someone will try to wake you when you're not here. An Imperturbus charm would prevent anyone from opening your curtains, but that would raise even more questions than your absence."

"I can just say I was in the bathroom," Sarah pointed out.

"And if you reappear when someone is looking at you?"

Sarah frowned, stymied.

"Admittedly, it's an unlikely occurrence. But there is a way to minimize the hazards." From a pocket in his robes, he removed a wand-length bundle of cloth. He laid it on the bed and unwrapped a dozen or so golden-brown wheat straws. That explained the faint rustling sensation she had felt when he held her. "Do you know what to do with these?"

Sarah sank down on the bed next to the straws, staring down at them, a cold sweat forming on the back of her neck. "I...think I remember how," she said. It had been some of the first Dark magic her father had taught her, and she had not even known it at the time. It had seemed merely an amazingly clever trick, to make, by careful twisting and bending, little dolls out of straw. The darker possibilities had been revealed later. She looked up at Snape. "What are we going to do?"

"An illusion spell, so the doll will appear to be you to anyone who might look in on you."

"This is dangerous," Sarah said. "If it should fall into anyone else's hands..."

"It won't be tied to you in that fashion. That's integral to the spell."

She continued to stare at him dubiously. "Is it possible to make a one-way connection?"

"Most of the commonly-used spells are one-way connections. This one merely makes the connection run in the other direction."

"Are you _sure?_" Sarah asked. The idea of the existence of any tool with which someone could directly affect her by Dark magic was not at all to her liking.

"Do you think that generations of students in Slytherin House would take the risk of making them otherwise?" His lip curled in his impatience with her hesitation.

"I didn't think Slytherin students broke the rules," Sarah challenged.

"Slytherin students simply put a higher priority on _not getting caught_. They used to have bed checks, you know, as late as my third year."

"Did they give it up because the students were too good at fooling the teachers?"

Snape chuckled faintly; it was still a curious sound to her ears. "It was a challenge. A game—not to be there for the check and not to be caught out for it. And yes, the staff figured out that the checks were producing more misbehavior than they were preventing."

"But not before you learned the spell?"

The smile left his face. "I already knew it, before I ever came to school."

Sarah lowered her eyes to the straws again. Forcing herself to overcome the instinct that told her, in her mother's voice, that she must never do such a thing again, she picked up a set of straws, whispered a charm to make them supple in her hands, and began folding them into a human shape. It was troubling how easily the skill came back; her hands were far less clumsy than a child's and made up for the years' worth of lack of practice. It was not long before the straw form lay finished in her hand.

Snape opened her trunk and pulled out the despised white nightgown. She imagined that he took a particular delight in using a severing charm to remove a long strip of the hem. With a sigh, she extended the doll to him.

"You have to do this," he told her. "The spell doesn't work properly otherwise."

By winding the strip of white cotton around it, she succeeding in creating a rough facsimile of a gown on the doll.

"Does it need hair or something?" Sarah asked, worried at the anticipated answer.

"No. That would create too strong and dangerous a bond. The clothing is enough." He went on to explain the spell, which allowed the doll to store and project a magical image of herself. If she pushed the blankets aside, as if she'd kicked off her covers, and left the doll there in her place, she might even be able to return under someone's very eyes without too much of a flicker of difference between her and her projected image in the dark.

Staring down at her apparent self, soundly asleep (or dead, if you noticed that it wasn't breathing), Sarah was extremely uncomfortable. She could feel the faintest tug of the magic in the doll, as if it were connected to her by a single thread. Dark magic.

"I don't like this," she said.

"I thought we agreed that that doesn't matter." There was the slightest edge on his voice.

"I know, but I still don't like it. Can't I feel about it as I please?"

"For the moment," he answered. She looked at him uneasily. "But it would help if you could feel, for just an instant, some pleasure in the cleverness of what you've done."

Sarah considered this. She had felt pleased with herself about the stairway, even about her first panicky trips without being caught. But none of that had involved the Dark Arts. To be quite honest, she felt ashamed of herself. If this were not necessary...

And there, she knew, was the beginning of a slippery slope of excuses. She frowned.

"At least _imagine_ you're pleased." Snape frowned in return.

"I can't. Not right now. Not about this." She shook her head.

His jaw tightened, in obvious frustration, but he turned from the matter. "Are you ready for another Portkey trip."

"If I have to be," she said, not enthusiastically.

"Then we'll proceed with one last test. When you get there, try to lie in as near a position as possible to that of your image here before you come back."

Sarah slid to the foot of the bed, out of the way of the illusion, and carried out these instructions. Her head again did not appreciate it, but the ginger decoction was still working, and when she returned she felt no urge to lose her dinner.

"Not bad," Snape said. "Probably better when it's fully dark in here. But dispell everything the moment you return. With you occupying nearly the same space, the image is apparent for what it is as soon as you shift positions."

"Are we done, then?" All this had exhausted Sarah beyond reason.

"We are." He climbed onto the bed as she dispelled the magic and tucked the horrid straw figure deep enough under the edge of her mattress that even the house-elves would be unlikely to find it. She turned back to find him very close to her. "Except, perhaps, for one thing."

She thoroughly enjoyed the groping and kissing that followed, but when it was clear that he intended to take things further, she balked.

"Not here." She pressed a restraining hand against his chest. "Please."

"Yes, here." It was very clear that he had no intention of stopping.

"Listen to me," she pleaded. She had to take his face between her hands to get him to pay attention. "I can't sleep in this bed, in this _room_, as a student, as Sarah Darkglass, not with this kind of memory haunting me. Please."

"Damn it," he snarled. "All right. But the moment that this room is empty at the end of the summer term..."

"Okay, okay," she agreed, maneuvering the ring onto her finger and turning it. Once, twice, three times.

* * *

**A/N:** If my Latin has not gotten completely hopeless, 'Munio silentio' means literally 'I wall (protect, defend) with silence.' 

The craft Sarah produces is called a 'corn dolly' in the U.K. and 'wheat weaving' in the U.S. and has a long history of use as folk magic in Britain. While my research into the subject indicates that it's possible to use effigy dolls for 'white magic' purposes, their connection to the idea of voodoo dolls is strong enough that I decided to use them as a form of Dark magic—one that would be especially easy for a Dark wizard to teach to his child.

I'm neither here nor there on the issue of young Snape having an attraction to Lily Evans. It seems like a very nice theory, well-supported by hints in canon, but it also seems that Rowling has denied the possibility pretty thoroughly in her interviews. Still, I thought I'd throw in the odd suggestion of an interest in _some_ Gryffindor girl of his own schooldays, just for kicks. And it was also fun to bring out a bit of the teenager in Snape. Especially since his underlying immaturity is nowhere quite so evident as in his upcoming confrontation with Sirius at 12 Grimmauld Place.

I have a theory about this—not unique to me, I'm sure. But if you consider it, apart from the five or so years that Snape spent doing who-knows-what unspeakable things as a Death Eater between leaving school and returning to teach, Snape has spent the biggest part of his life at Hogwarts. In a way, although he's got the authority position of a teacher, I daresay that from his earliest days in that position, it must have seemed to him just a new and better way of being the number one bully of Slytherin House (a position he may actually not have held during his own school days, which would make it all the sweeter). In any case, Hogwarts is a relatively sheltered environment, and Snape would not have been forced to learn to cope on every level as a completely mature adult, regardless of his age. Sirius provides an interesting mirror for Snape. He, too, has been cut off from the 'real adult world' since the age of about 22, and he also exhibits the same juvenile tendencies that Snape does. Lupin, contrarily, has had to live in the real world, unkind as it as been to him, and his level of maturity is noticeably higher (although his own personality may have played a part there as well). James, of course, is dead. And who knows what living as a rat for twelve years would have done to Peter! Okay, enough rambling about that. Up next: some more odds and ends of scenes (including the bizarre exposition, in story form, of my Snape hair theory, and Snape's birthday) as the winter term begins.


	19. Ch 18: Of Shoes or of Riddles

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** There are some things I could claim copyright to (none of which, unfortunately, currently have any monetary value). Harry Potter isn't one of them, however. This is all for fun, so don't hassle over it, please.

**A/N:** Reviewers, both new and old, you are great! It's fun to write for you!

This is the second chapter (out of three) of odds and ends that will get us to Valentine's Day. These are short (mostly) scenes that will reveal bits of information or advance the plot (or at least the timeline), even if it's ever so slightly, and hopefully (in some cases) will give you a good chuckle in the process. Some of the scenes in this chapter (like the first one, which I debated putting in at all!) have been around since I first thought up the story. Others have sprung up more recently, sometimes even as I'm in the process of writing.

To be true to the title of this chapter, I'm going to give you a few riddles to solve as you read. This time I managed to put in references to _two_ Alan Rickman movies—one should be easy, the other will probably be very tricky. Also, extra points if you know what kind of feathers _actually_ go in memory potions (cecelle already knows this one).

The chocolate cake, btw, is a nod to the Snape's Birthday Challenge, which has produced some really funny fics.

* * *

**Chapter 18: Of Shoes...or of Riddles**

Sarah knew she ought have gone back to Gryffindor Tower to sleep, but with no one else there yet, she had some leeway, and she took it. No one would make the effort of looking for her all day anyway, except at mealtimes. That, unfortunately, was an all-too-necessary inconvenience. Early on Saturday morning, leaving him still asleep (she had learned that he was not, by nature, an early riser—which, she decided, might account for some of his testiness during term time), she popped back to her room to shower, change and make the trek down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

He was still sleeping when she got back, although it didn't take long for the rattling of bottles in the workroom to wake him up. Predictably, he checked on her progress before he headed for the bathroom; the pattering of water made it clear that he was taking a shower.

Whether she was feeling particularly wicked this morning, or whether it was simply knowing that this was likely the last opportunity she would have for a long time, she tiptoed into the bathroom. A spell kept the water inside the stall, but did not significantly obscure the view. Turned away from the door, he had just ducked his head under the water, rubbing vigorously at his face. It was only after he had grabbed the soap and started lathering up his body that he turned around and noticed her bemused observance.

"I cannot abide soap in my eyes," he said, almost defensively, although she hadn't said a word. Then, sharply, "Do you _mind?_"

"No, I don't mind," Sarah said offhandedly, as if he were asking her opinion of his bathing habits instead of hinting strongly that he would rather shower in private. Although the offhandedness did not come easily to her; she had to pretend a nonchalance she still did not feel about looking at a stark naked man. She shrugged slightly, as his expression darkened, and she flounced out of the bathroom with a brash, "I _am_ your wife, you know."

The whole exchange, she decided, leaning against the wall outside, had been decidedly strange.

* * *

He was inexplicably restless all morning, picking irritably at the least deviation in her potion-making techniques from what he would have done himself. She was almost glad to go back to Gryffindor Tower, even though it was for the purpose of making the long trip downstairs to lunch. 

There were a few more students at the table (although thankfully none from her dormitory), and Snape came in late, which proved to be a more significant trial than Sarah expected. It was only the presence of Umbridge, acting like a burr against her skin, that kept reminding her from moment to moment that she must be a student—and nothing more than a student.

The problem wasn't some ridiculous urge to behave with outrageous familiarity. She could have fought that easily. It was the habit she had developed of watching him all day without hindrance, of feeling more comfortable than she should in the presence of the grouchy Potions master of Hogwarts. It would surely be easier, wouldn't it, once he was sitting at the staff table and she was back at the far end of the Gryffindor table?

The meal had made her so antsy that she did not have the patience to climb up all the way up to her room afterward. Instead she ducked down the side hallway on the first floor, slid down the wall to sit in the alcove behind the armor, and Portkeyed herself into his room.

He was waiting for her, and not in his workroom. She had not felt such a frenzied desire for him since the beginning of their relationship, and his own actions indicated that she was not the only one. They made love as if they were gulping down water at the last spring on the edge of a vast desert.

"I have errands," he said, as soon as he had enough breath again. "Among other things, Potter must be informed of the headmaster's instructions for his extra lessons. I think perhaps I can survive that encounter now without wanting to hex him into tomorrow."

He cleaned up and dressed, while she lay still, daydreaming drowsily about the contents of a sharp and possibly lewd letter to her aunt. She wouldn't dare to send it, of course, but it was satisfying to imagine it out.

"Go back to your room," Snape said, interrupting her thoughts. He looked down at her and frowned slightly. "This lack of restraint hasn't been good for us. The term begins the day after tomorrow. You know what we have to do." There was steel in his voice.

Sarah shut her eyes, trying to find the steel in her own soul. "I know."

She kept her eyes closed until he was gone.

* * *

Sarah welcomed the start of term more than she had ever imagined possible. Their complete separation for the last day of the holidays had been a misery, and only the singularly menacing expression Snape wore during meals kept her from throwing caution to the wind while she still had any real chance to do so. It was far easier to fall asleep in a roomful of chattering girls than to toss and turn all alone for hours, knowing that the solution to her loneliness was the mere forbidden twist of a ring away from her. 

What surprised her most was that it _was_ loneliness, more so than lust. She had grown accustomed to having him at her shoulder as she worked, sitting across from her as she ate or read. Even when he was gone, his personal space bore the unmistakable stamp of his presence, cradling her with that same curious mixture of comfort and disquiet that she felt whenever his arms were around her. It had never bothered her before that their relationship was a matter of secrets and darkness. But now, as she walked restlessly around the grounds in the cold sunshine, watching other students grouped together in conversation in twos and threes, his absence from her side was like a rent in the fabric of the universe.

It took real effort to sit in Potions class on Monday and be the girl who had chosen not to go down to the dungeons. Again, it was mainly the knowledge of how angry he would be if she slipped up that kept her locked painfully into the character she had abandoned on Boxing Day.

If it had been an ordinary class period, with him wandering about the classroom checking on their potions, it might have been considerably more difficult. Instead, Snape announced that each of the seventh year N.E.W.T. students was being assigned a private workroom in the dungeons for the purposes of developing a final project in preparation for the examination.

"Your projects must be submitted to me for approval before you begin. Nothing with potentially lethal results will be permitted, as you will be working, for the most part, unsupervised. It would be excessively difficult to explain to your parents why their child has become merely a damp spot on the dungeon wall."

The Slytherins in the class all giggled, while everyone else sent each other glances that expressed varying degrees of dubious amusement. It was too near to a joke for most of them to process it, coming from this particular teacher. Sarah satisfied herself with a quiet grin.

"In selecting your project, you must consider carefully what strengths you wish to emphasize to the examiners when the time comes for you to prepare your potion in the exam. However, I warn you that the highest marks are given only for potions that are either successfully experimental in nature," he shot a pointed look at (Sarah would have sworn) the Weasley twins, "or else widely acknowledged to be of significant difficulty."

He spent the rest of the lesson lecturing on potential options. Although Sarah was finding, ironically, that it had become much easier than it once was not to be distracted by the mere sound of his voice (accustomed as she had become to hearing it all day), nevertheless she could not decide between several of the more difficult potions he described. She was not an experimenter. Leave that to the likes of the Weasleys, whose mutual glances at one another throughout the lecture were entirely too smug.

Near the end of the class period, Snape brought out a list of room assignments, which he read aloud, while the students who had decided that class was already over had to scramble for their quills to write down their assigned room numbers. After giving several stern warnings about the rules for the use of the student workrooms (they would be inspected weekly, for instance, and failure to maintain the expected level of tidiness would result—as would the breaking of most of the other rules—in an unbreakable locking charm being placed on the door for a length of time appropriate to the infraction), Snape released the class so that they could locate their workrooms.

The student workrooms were, Sarah discovered when she found hers, little more than dank stone cells, each provided (as cross-comparison between students showed) with a table and a small cabinet. There was fierce competition for the better items among the battered school-owned equipment that Snape was permitting to be checked out for use in the workrooms. Sarah refrained from participating in the ugliness; in the end it resulted in the loss of more than a few House points by everyone but the Slytherins, who were, in many of the cases, the instigators. Certainly they had ended up with the better equipment. She still had a meager hope that she would be able buy her own equipment, although she had feared from the very beginning of their quarrel that Aunt Portia would use her position as Sarah's guardian to convince Gringotts to freeze her accounts. If that turned out to be the case, Sarah thought dubiously, perhaps Snape would let her borrow some of his. Certainly he was not going to permit her to fail for lack of it.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Sarah risked a long glance at the staff table as she came into the Great Hall, wondering anxiously how the Occlumency lesson had gone. Snape, however, was not at the staff table, and as she took her usual place with the rest of the seventh years, she noticed that the other teachers wore extremely grim expressions. In alarm, she ran her eyes along the Gryffindor table, looking for Potter, worried that somehow the dreaded lesson had turned out badly wrong. She heard a whisper of "Azkaban" behind her—just a few seconds before she saw the bespectacled, wild-haired boy sitting safely in front of his breakfast. Her relief was short-lived, however. His expression, too, was gloomy, and he looked around the room as if in disbelief. One of his friends, the fifth year Girl Wonder, Hermione Granger, passed a copy of the_ Daily Prophet_ across the table to him, and he looked up from it even more appalled. 

Sarah, not seeing anyone near her at the Gryffindor table reading the paper, turned around to look at the Hufflepuffs behind her. One of them, just a little down the way, was holding up a copy to show his neighbor, and the shocking headline _MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN_ fairly jumped out at her. The front page was taken up almost entirely by photographs of the criminals in question. She thought she recognized a couple of them, even at this distance, without being able to see the captions under the pictures. Old friends of her father's. Death Eaters.

She had not thought the day could seem any longer. It was difficult not to pull out her ring right here and now and go looking for him. She wasn't that stupid, of course. But she could not concentrate in Defense Against the Dark Arts, although Professor Umbridge was out of sorts, asking pointless questions at random, sweetly eviscerating the unfortunates who failed to give her the answers she wanted.

Sarah's relief at seeing Snape at the staff table at lunch, to all appearances safe and sound, was impossible to hide.

"Hm?" Angelina said, hearing her sigh.

"Oh, uh, Snape's back," Sarah said, taking refuge in a fraction of the truth while she thought quickly. The other girl's eyebrows went up, and she hastily explained, "I noticed he wasn't at breakfast, and all through Umbridge's class this morning I was thinking about how horrible it would be if he got sick and she made up her mind to teach Potions as well."

"That's pretty sad," Angelina grimaced, "although it seems to me like the two would be interchangeable."

"Au contraire," one of the Weasley twins chimed in. "Granted that Snape is a bit of a prat."

"But," continued the other twin, "he's not a complete idiot."

"I imagine you two have your projects already planned out," Sarah said.

"Planned and executed."

"Easiest term we've had in ages."

* * *

For the first time, Sarah was glad that her dorm mates were on the Quidditch team. Tired players tended to turn in as early as possible on practice nights. Still, it was going on eleven o'clock before she let her anxiety to leave overtake her cautious fears. With spells in place, she turned her ring shakily to the left. 

He wasn't in his room.

Sarah bounded off the bed in near panic. Not in the bathroom, not in the workroom. She finally found him in his office, grading papers.

"What's the matter?" he asked, taking in her breathless relief.

"I was just worried that...that something bad had happened."

"Are you referring to the escapes from Azkaban?" He looked at her a bit warily. "I assure you I had nothing to do with that incident."

"Did you know it was going to happen?" Having been distracted from the original tack she had planned for the conversation, Sarah wasn't thinking clearly enough to keep the question from popping out.

"If I did," he said, eyes narrowing, "can you imagine that anyone at the Ministry would possibly have taken me seriously?"

He had a good point. She took a seat in the chair on this side of his desk, trying to frame what she wanted to say. "What I was really concerned about was how...well, how the Occlumency lesson went." It sounded horribly forward, as if she _were _prying; she wasn't sure how to explain the panic she had felt, thinking for those long, long seconds that he had been sent to Azkaban for attacking Harry Potter. It occurred to her for the first time that Dumbledore would probably not have let her hear news like that as gossip in the Great Hall. But at the time it had seemed altogether possible that such a thing had happened.

Snape's face took on a predictably sour look. "It might have been worse, although I find it difficult to imagine how. The boy has no self-control. Just as I warned the headmaster beforehand. And of course the headmaster's solution, if I found that to be the case, was a second lesson each week. I am afraid," he said, "that Wednesday nights are going to be off-limits as well."

"That's half the week!" Sarah protested.

"My, I thought your arithmetic skills were better than that." But there was a glint in his eye.

"You know what I mean!"

"I do," he said. "But it isn't as if this is worse than before the holidays. Also consider, Sarah, that I'm no longer a boy. There are times when you positively exhaust me."

Sarah said nothing. For no reason she could put her finger on, the comment had stung deeply. Casting about for something to distract her attention, she noticed a rather fat and gaudy purple envelope on the corner of the desk. She picked it up. It was addressed to _Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts_ from _Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts_.

"What's this?" she asked.

Snape groaned and raised a hand his forehead as if he had a headache. He drew a deep breath, heaved a sigh, then said, "Oh, go on, you may as well know."

It had already been opened, and the contents replaced rather roughly. Sarah eased them out of the envelope. The item that had made it so bulky was a small packet emblazoned with large, friendly letters spelling out: _Dora Dulce's Densified Decadent Devil's Food Delight_. The other half of the contents was a card. The illustration on the cover depicted an elderly wizard blowing out an inferno of a birthday cake, whereupon he turned into a child, who rapidly grew up, sprouted a long grey beard, noticed that the cake was on fire again, and blew it out, with the same results as before. The words _Many Happy Returns of a Second Youth_ chased each other around the edge of the card. Inside, Dumbledore had written: _Although I know how you feel about such reminders, I thought you might have had a change of heart this year. Share and enjoy._

"It's your birthday?" Sarah said, fixing Snape with a quizzical eye.

"Obviously. Otherwise I would not have been subjected to _that_." He glared at the card in Sarah's hands.

She shut the monstrosity and waved it between them. "So, is this my fault, too?"

"Hardly. He always finds an excuse to make an exception. Indeed, the exception is the rule, in this case."

Sarah picked up the package. "Shall we at least enjoy the cake?"

"It's sure to be stale. And probably made with preservative potions that will keep our bodies from rotting decently for several hundred years."

She opened the package anyway. A small brown disk inside promptly expanded into a double-layered chocolate cake, complete with icing. She stole some from an unobtrusive spot near the bottom. "Not too bad, really." Then, trying to make the question sound nonchalant, "So, how old are you today, anyway?"

"A day older than yesterday," Snape said between his teeth.

Concluding that discretion was, even more than usual, the better part of valor, Sarah went into the workroom, retrieved a couple of stirring spoons, used a scourgifying spell on them several times in succession, and returned to the office. She offered one to him. "Live just a little."

He took the spoon, but growled, "I had far different thoughts about how to celebrate my birthday." He ate a small spoonful of the cake and made a face.

"Well," Sarah said, raising her eyebrows. She scooped up a generous bite. "That _is_ what I came here for. In a sense."

"Yes, I know," he grimaced. "Here." He passed part of a stack of unrolled parchments across the desk. "Thanks to Mr. Potter I accomplished nothing last night, and at this rate, these won't be finished for tomorrow. I'm sure that you are quite competent enough to grade first year essays. The sooner this particular torment is finished with, the sooner we can..._celebrate_."

Sarah picked up the top parchment and began scanning it as she nibbled on the cake. He had been right—it was rather stale. It sorted well with the essays. "Oh my, these are bad. Gary Boland of Hufflepuff thinks that _Jabberwocky_ feathers are used in memory potions. He's even quoted some nonsensical poem."

"Don't feel excessively sorry for them," Snape said, glancing up from the essay he was reading. "You must be aware of my standards by now; I expect you to grade accordingly."

Sarah set aside her spoon, retrieved a spare quill and, after another reading and a rapid mental calculation, wrote down a score. It was only as she began to write a comment underneath it that she realized...

"Oh, no! Even the first years will know this isn't your handwriting." Snape's spiky hand was distinctive, and her own neat printing looked nothing like it. She looked up in alarm.

"Hmm." Snape took the paper from her hand, picked up his wand and tapped the sheet. "_Forgero Severus Snape!_"

He handed it back, and Sarah watched the ink rearrange itself slightly into letters of a different shape, but one that she knew very well.

"That's...wicked." She wasn't sure if she meant it literally or as a compliment. Maybe both.

"You will never tell anyone I taught you that charm. Nor will you ever teach it to anyone else. Particularly to other students." He looked sour again, as if irritated by the remembrance of her situation.

Sarah was still boggled by the implications. "Knowing this...can _any_ document be trusted? The Ministry..."

"Fortunately," Snape said, "there is a countercharm, which the Ministry uses on documents where forgery is suspected. There are certain mental tricks that can subvert it—the countercharm only reveals the identity which the writer earnestly believed they possessed when they wrote the words. But I'll teach the countercharm to you as well, since you may wish to use it on these papers as you grade them. By this point, the first years have managed to determine who is and is not able to do the homework I set. Occasionally there are less-than-honest attempts to remedy a string of poor marks." He flicked his wand again, touching the point to the forged comments. "_Auctorem veritum revealo!_"

Lines of fire appeared in the air above the page, spelling out a name that she had never yet written with her own hand: _Sarah Snape_.

Sarah felt a chill run down her spine and lodge in her stomach. Snape's face seemed to go entirely blank for a moment.

"Do all of the teachers check their students' essays for cheating?" she asked, in a thin whisper.

"Not in the seventh year," he said dismissively. "At this point, marks are insignificant, except as a guide to what may be expected on the N.E.W.T. No Hogwarts teacher would make the effort to check up on..." he trailed off, his eyes widening with the same realization that had just occurred to Sarah.

"Professor..."

"Dolores..." Snape spoke at the same time.

Then together, "Umbridge."

"Oh, no." Sarah wrung her hands.

"You haven't turned in any work yet?" Snape wanted to know.

"No. But there's an essay due tomorrow. I've already finished it."

"You will be dropping Defense Against the Dark Arts immediately," he ordered, in a tone so imperious that she would have been inclined to quarrel with it if she had not been determined on the same course of action.

The biggest problem, of course, would be _how_.

* * *

**A/N:** Assuming the accuracy of the Harry Potter Lexicon, Snape would be turning 36 on this birthday. Dang, that's younger than I am. When did that happen:P 

The words of the countercharm are supposed to mean "I reveal the true author."

I don't know if anyone else noticed it, but when I read OotP, I couldn't help being struck by the fact that, beginning with his announcement to Harry about the Occlumency lessons, Snape seems downright _chipper_—for _him_, at least. I honestly expected Snape to behave much worse about that whole business than he did. The real reason for his change of attitude (if it's not just a figment of my imagination) may be downright sinister: what if he _was_ trying to open up Harry's mind instead of teaching him to close it? But I'd still rather believe in a reformed Snape. And it's fun to have my _own_ reasons why Snape would seem happier than he's been before. And also why Dumbledore might think that he's now capable of coping with James's son.

Finally, my Snape hair theory is based on my oldest (and recently teenaged) son, who must be reminded (sometimes sternly) that washing one's hair and face involves more than letting water run over them. And yes, it's because he hates getting soap in his eyes. I don't expect Snape had anyone to bug him about it. And sorry, girls, my son is not like Snape in any other way: his hair is light brown and very curly, and he inherited his nose from me and his temperament from his dad, instead of the other way around (now _that _would have been Snape-ish).


	20. Ch 19: Of Frocks or of Chocolates

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Sarah is mine. Her family is mine. Her lingerie is mine. Everything else belongs to JKR.

**A/N:** Once again, many thanks to my reviewers! (That means you, Owlbait, cecelle, lucidity and zhaneraal.) And special thanks to cecelle for her input on this chapter and the one following!

We finally get to Valentine's Day. I'll say no more about that just yet. I got in another Rickman reference—this one should be painfully obvious. In case you were curious, the references in the last chapter were to _Michael Collins_ (which cecelle got) and to _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. Now, without further ado...

* * *

**Chapter 19: Of Frocks...or of Chocolates**

The posting on the boards of yet another 'Educational Decree' on Wednesday morning was not the most encouraging of signs. It was particularly alarming that this edict, forbidding teachers to teach anything outside their own subject areas, seemed to be aimed especially at something like the Occlumency lessons. How the woman could have already found out about the arrangement was anyone's guess, but if she had discovered that, there was no knowing what else she might have uncovered. It seemed altogether too likely that a conversation with Umbridge would end with the woman denouncing her for her relationship with Snape.

But Sarah had no choice. Simply failing to show up for any more of the woman's classes would certainly attract her notice, even if she were not already armed with information against them. So she approached Professor Umbridge immediately after breakfast, requesting an appointment with her. The woman seemed very flustered and consulted a fat diary before informing Sarah that she could not possibly see her before seven o'clock this evening.

It was unfortunate that it was necessary to skive off Defense Against the Dark Arts before the stated appointment. But her absence would be easier to excuse than her failure to turn in her essay during the lesson. Still, Sarah had to get a very firm grip on herself before she knocked on Professor Umbridge's door.

"Come in," the sickly sweet voice said.

The office's decor reflected the same bizarrely little-girl sense of taste as Umbridge's choice of clothing did. The walls were covered with pictures of kittens, and every flat surface was covered with crocheted doilies. The woman herself had changed her black academic robes for ones with a pattern of large strawberries printed all over them. The same fat bow as she had been wearing this morning, however, was still bound to the top of her head.

"I could not help noticing, Miss Darkglass, that you were not in class today. And you were not on Madam Pomfrey's ill-and-injured list. Do you have some explanation for this?"

"Yes, and that's what I need to speak to you about," Sarah said. She took the seat opposite Umbridge at the woman's signal. "You see, I just found out that I have a chance for a very prestigious apprenticeship. But it will require a better mark on my Potions N.E.W.T. than I had originally been aiming for. I'm going to have to spend a lot of time studying, and it's become plain to me that I can't continue to give my full attention to the rest of my classes. I'm going to have to drop at least one. And I'm afraid that Defense Against the Dark Arts is the only one I can afford to drop."

Umbridge's toad-like face puckered with displeasure. "I regret very much to hear that. Are you sure that you can't drop some other class? Or perhaps if you applied yourself more rigorously..."

"I wish I didn't have to. I enjoy your class so much," Sarah lied, hoping to mollify the woman. "But I've got to have a N.E.W.T. in all my other courses for my apprenticeship. Besides," she had a sudden stroke of inspiration, "the Ministry does such a good job of protecting us, you know, it hardly seems as if anyone really _needs_ more than an O.W.L. in Defense, does it?" She tried to look as earnestly innocent as she imagined that someone with that point of view would look; in reality, she was holding her breath.

Umbridge's mouth spread into a wide grin. The transformation was almost frightening. "Why, yes, that's very true," she said. "I suppose you're right, dear. A prestigious apprenticeship is surely worth the sacrifice. Although I shall sincerely miss having someone of your insight and intelligence in my class."

It was difficult not to choke in reaction to such a bare-faced falsehood. And yet...was it possible that the horrid woman believed herself to be in earnest? Did so few students tell her what she wanted to hear? Such a ready and positive response to her efforts to suck up to Umbridge, unexpected as the reaction was, helped Sarah achieve a grateful expression. "Thank you for understanding, Professor. I'm not sure all of my teachers would have."

It was truly disgusting the way the woman slurped up flattery. "Think nothing of it. I'm glad to have provided some small assistance. By the way," Umbridge went on, conspiratorially, "where is this apprenticeship? Being in the Ministry does give one connections..."

It was a bad moment, but the truth—carefully modified, of course—had served her so far, and now it might lay the foundation for dealing with future problems, should Umbridge's presence continue beyond this school year. "Here at Hogwarts, actually," Sarah admitted. She managed a self-abasing blush. "I don't know if I'll be the one selected for it, but I hope so."

"Really, a Potions apprenticeship here? With Professor Snape?"

Unable to read Umbridge's expression, Sarah decided to take the bull by the horns. If Umbridge did know the truth, although that now seemed unlikely, it wouldn't make any difference what she said. "Yes, isn't that incredible? He doesn't often take an apprentice, so I've heard. But he believes that several in the N.E.W.T. class this year are exceptionally skilled, and he's decided to offer the opportunity to one of us." Sarah managed to work herself up to positively gushing.

"Well, well," Umbridge said. "That would be splendid, wouldn't it? Indeed, keeping students of your caliber around is an excellent idea. I shall have to put in a good word for you with Professor Snape."

"Would you?" Sarah raised both her eyebrows and her voice. It almost frightened her that, having figured out the right line to take with this teacher, she could do it so well. "Oh, I'd _really_ appreciate that, Professor."

"There, there," Umbridge responded, "you just do your very best, and I've no doubt that things will work out. They always do, for the deserving."

* * *

Rehearsing this conversation the next evening to Snape was almost as entertaining (and far less nerve-wracking) than living through it. 

"Do I need more than one guess which House she was in?" Sarah asked.

His upper lip curled slightly.

"Um _hm_," she murmured with a smirk. Then she leaned on her elbow. "Well, I don't know if she'll really remember to talk to you," she concluded, "but even if it slips her mind, if something comes up later that reminds her about me, the seed is planted for making her think that my apprenticeship is a good idea."

"Excellent," Snape said. He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. "Now, about your project. I've decided to teach you to make Wolfsbane Potion."

Sarah stared. Partly because she was outraged that he would decide for her what she was going to work on. And partly because what he was suggesting seemed far beyond her abilities. "There are hardly a dozen wizards in the world who can brew that correctly," she said, stunned.

"Yes, and I happen to be one of them. Which puts you in an ideal position to learn." As if taking his own words a little too literally, he put the basic premise of his suggestion into action. "I believe you can be taught the right touch for it," he continued with his double-entendre. "If not, there are other possibilities."

"What about what I wanted to do?" Sarah asked, letting the defiance of her words leak into her reactions just a little, artfully resisting his seduction. It was a little troubling that she enjoyed that game as much as she did, after what had happened. But their relations, from the very beginning, had skirted along the edge of rape many times before he had dragged her over it. He seemed to like it that way. _Fear_, he whispered to her once, _is a powerful aphrodisiac_. Disconcertingly, she had found it true...but only—in her own case, at least—if she was willing to be frightened. And how he might have developed a taste for it was another of those things that would not bear much thinking about.

"What _did_ you want to do?" he asked, between kisses.

"Well, something more within my abilities. Polyjuice? Veritaserum? I was leaning toward the Veritaserum. It could be...useful."

"I remind you that the use of Veritaserum is strictly regulated," he hissed. But there was a teasing note in his voice, she thought.

"You could hardly tell on me, could you?" Sarah whispered impishly.

"It depends on what you planned to ask me. There are a great many things I don't want you to know."

"Why not?" Sarah grinned, reaching up to kiss him. But he held her back.

"You know why, Sarah," he said with abrupt soberness. He locked eyes with her, and she would have sworn she saw pain there for a moment. Then his expression softened and he was kissing her again, as if his lips could erase the coldness they had just spoken. "It will quickly become apparent to me whether you will be able to eventually manage the Wolfsbane or not. If you can't, you may work on the Polyjuice."

Sarah stuck out her tongue at him. She might have predicted that he would take that as an invitation.

* * *

The excuse she had made to Umbridge about not having time for all her other courses came true in spades. Snape provided her with a stack of literature on the Wolfsbane Potion. It did not take much reading to discover that the theories being discussed were of a much higher order that she could readily comprehend. When she admitted as much to Snape, however, he gave her another stack of reading, with the suggestion that if she was able to digest the new material first, she would probably then find the Wolfsbane articles understandable. 

"Why didn't you just give these to me to begin with?" she complained.

"For two reasons," he said. "First, I wanted to you recognize the fact that what you are about to attempt is extremely difficult, even for experienced potion-makers. Second, now that you know what you _don't_ know, you will be able to read the preliminary material with a far more discerning eye toward gaining the knowledge you lack."

And so she read. Constantly. Until her eyes blurred and she began to have dreams about listening to Potions lectures that almost made sense in her sleep, but which she couldn't understand in the slightest when she woke up. Snape quizzed her periodically on her progress, and set her to making potions that were meant to help her get the hang of certain techniques or permit her to observe particular effects described in her reading.

With a Hogsmeade weekend coming up in February, when she intended to purchase her potion-making equipment, Sarah made discreet inquiries to Gringotts and discovered, to her chagrin, that Aunt Portia had, indeed, asserted control over her money. Sarah's inheritance was not huge; she had never imagined that she might live on it indefinitely without employment. Malcolm Darkglass had decided to settle much of his wealth on his Nott nephews, but he had set aside what should have been a very reasonable portion for Sarah. The Ministry, however, had wrangled over the question of whether or not the testament of a criminal who had died attempting to elude justice could possibly be valid. In the end, the estate was settled more or less as her father had intended, except that Darkglass Hall was given to Julia—who had been bequeathed nothing in the original will—and which she promptly sold (for less than it was worth, Aunt Portia had complained) to the Notts, who had always wanted it anyway. It was supposed to have gone to Sarah.

Although part of the money resulting from the sale had been given over to Portia to assist with the expenses of keeping them in her household, Julia had at least had the foresight to set up a separate small account, with a certain portion to be made available each year, for Sarah to use for school expenses. And whether because Aunt Portia considered the sum it contained paltry enough not to concern herself with it, or because she had some tiny portion of mercy left in her, she had not touched the school account. There was not a great deal left in it, although Sarah had always been thrifty. The equipment would pretty well leave her poverty-stricken, although she would still have enough left to replace the nightgown Snape had spoiled. Sarah had mended the hem, but it wasn't entirely even and it now showed off her ankles and calves in a most unbecoming way.

Sarah wrote a stern letter to her aunt, demanding that she stop interfering in her business. After all, she pointed out sarcastically, Portia had made it very clear that she wanted nothing more to do with her niece.

Aunt Portia's response was haughty. Sarah could do as she liked with her life. But Portia would not sit aside and permit the girl to squander her money—at least some of which, she pointed out, had been Julia's dowry—on foolishness or wickedness. Those were her precise words: foolishness or wickedness. As Sarah's guardian, she had been made co-signatory to her accounts, an arrangement that was not due to cease until Sarah's 25th birthday. Perhaps, Portia hinted, by then the girl would have come to her senses.

* * *

The advent of St. Valentine's Day on the very day of the Hogsmeade Saturday disturbed Sarah's internal equilibrium yet again. She should not care about such a uselessly gushy day. Pink hearts were for people who were truly, madly, deeply in love with each other. What she had with Severus was...well, from the beginning it had been lust, and there was still plenty of that. And the ease she felt in his presence was...well, it was _something_; she wasn't quite sure what, but she couldn't remotely call it being in love. But thanks to this stupid holiday, she felt more than usually miserable tramping through the streets of Hogsmeade alone. 

She would buy her equipment and her new nightgown and get back to the castle as quickly as possible. Snape had not been assigned chaperone duties today, which was just as well, since they couldn't safely meet in the village anyway. She would hurry back and spend the afternoon with him. Grading papers, like as not. Brewing another tricky potion. And, hopefully, other things.

In Dreggs and Pennyworth, Sarah spent far too long over her choices, trying to figure out what she really needed, looking at various models of the equipment, trying to decide where she could skimp. Finally she concluded that the most important item was a high-quality scale. She could borrow most of her minor tools from Snape's lab, since he had plenty of spares. The few other things she needed, she bought in a lesser quality. Still, the amount she had to lay on the counter for her purchases made her wince.

It was a relief, all the same, to find herself with more money left than she had originally feared. If she didn't spend too much on her new nightgown, she might even have some left to... _To buy him something?_ She sighed at the thought. How would he react to that? She was a little afraid to find out. She was not about to spend her last few Knuts on something he would simply disdain.

Around the corner from the apothecary's, partway down the side street, was The Briar Rose, a discount shop. Mostly they sold a mish-mash of new or nearly new clothing gleaned from Muggle bargain tables or jumble sales. Sarah left her bags at the shop counter and began the arduous process of sorting through the possibilities.

On the table of Christmas wear, marked down to half price, she found what she was looking for. _There_. It was perfect. The red flannel nightgown was trimmed—rather garishly perhaps—with green lace. Nothing virginal about it—on the contrary, it was positively matronly. It was a fair match for his own grey nightshirt, and if he complained about being confronted nightly with Gryffindor red, she could point out the lace as a concession. What was more, it was cheap.

Congratulating herself on her find, Sarah bundled it up and headed back to the counter to pay for it. But something caught the corner of her eye, over along the wall where a few items were hung up on display. A green shimmer. She stopped and turned to look.

_Oh, my_...

The top of the garment was a riot of fretwork, rather like Battenburg lace, only in the same deep green shade as the fabric itself. Silk, her hesitant touch (after approaching it hypnotically) revealed, although it looked like satin. It appeared to be hanging in midair from the wooden hanger; the straps, which were tangible, had obviously been treated with something to make them invisible. In awe, Sarah lifted the hanger from its hook and held the loose gown against her. The tiny rolled hem hit her barely at mid-thigh.

_The price tag? _She trembled as she looked for it.

It wasn't quite as bad as she feared. But, with the flannel gown (which she _must_ buy, since she clearly couldn't wear this green skimpiness in the dormitory) it would exhaust every Galleon she had, including the little she had decided to leave in her account as a buffer when she made her withdrawal at the Gringotts branch office this morning.

Still shaking, Sarah took it to the counter. "I'll take these two," she said. "But can you hold them for me for a few minutes? I'll be right back."

* * *

After dealing with her purchases in her room, Sarah drew the curtains around her bed, created the wall of silence, and turned her ring to the left. 

"I was wondering where you were," Snape said, coming out of his office into the workroom and sealing the wall behind him. "The grading is finished."

"Oh, good," Sarah said, leaning casually against the archway between the bedroom and the workroom.

He fixed her with a sharp look. "You're up to something."

"Whatever makes you think that?" Sarah asked in mock innocence.

"Because I know that look," he purred. "A very Gryffindor look."

"You're sure it isn't a Slytherin look?" She raised her eyebrows.

He frowned. "You haven't given in to the pressures of the day and gone and bought me something abominable, have you?"

"I didn't buy you anything...exactly," she said. "I leave it to your judgment whether it's abominable or not. What's this?" She noticed a new project on the nearest table, and stepped over to investigate. It was finished, already bottled. She read the label. "Raspberry Passion?" she asked dubiously. Then, spying the nature of the instructions on the table, she blinked. "You made a potion out of _Witch Weekly?_"

Snape cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. "Someone on the staff requested my assistance with a recipe."

"I don't supposed you'll tell me who?" Sarah grinned.

"The request was made in confidence," he said. "And you have far too little respect for your teachers as it is." He slipped an arm around her and with the other hand picked up the bottle. "This is what was left over. I don't imagine it's very strong, considering the source, but it might prove...entertaining."

"Mmmm," Sarah agreed. "Well, in that case, perhaps you should begin unwrapping your present. I warn you, it's in layers."

"Hmmm." He unsealed the bottle and took several sips until he had drunk about half; then he offered it to her.

"Gah, that's sweet," Sarah coughed. It was very definitely raspberry-flavored, though. As he predicted, the effect wasn't much, although it was enough to make the pre-existing idea of going into the bedroom more imperative. Also, she was feeling a good deal warmer than before. "Definitely time to start on your present."

"Layers?" He managed to open her outer robes. "What on earth did you...?"

Sarah laughed, the inhibition-relaxing effects of the potion resulting in a sound that was almost maniacal. "Better than my old one?"

"You'd be better without," he growled softly.

"Ah, ah, remember, layers." Sarah managed to shed her outer robes completely. He went to work almost immediately on removing the red flannel nightgown.

"Careful," she warned, worried that the little green outfit would slip off with it. "Here, let me." She wriggled out of the red flannel, tossing it down on top of her outer robes as if she were performing some kind of strip tease. Something in her brain told her she ought to be thoroughly abashed, but the potion wasn't giving her much help in listening to it. Now she was standing there in nothing but the shimmering green silk.

The amount on the price tag paled in comparison: his expression was priceless.

"Abominable?" she asked, in a voice that matched the fabric.

It seemed to take him a long time to find his voice, which had become more than usually dusky. "So...Slytherin? I knew you'd come over to our side eventually."

_"Go, if you wish. If you think you can. But leave Sarah to me."_

Sarah felt as if her breath had been knocked out.

_"You know this is for Sarah's sake, Malcolm, not mine!"_

_"I don't want to leave, Mother, please! Father will promise to be good, I know he will. Please, Father!"_

_Her mother's arms around her were like bands of iron and silk. Her father's grey eyes were so sad. Surely he would agree!_

_"Take her if you will, then, Julia. Keep her if you can. But she'll come back to our side of her own accord, eventually."_

She couldn't breathe. Her stomach had been jerked out by the tiny Portkey from the Witches' Protection League. Aunt Portia had sent it by owl post.

"What's wrong? Sarah, what's the matter?" It wasn't her father's voice. She blinked, trying to see past the images that had arisen from some heretofore mercifully darkened corner of her memory, filling her head and her heart with unbearable pain. It was someone else's voice. An unhandsome face, furrowed with concern. Severus Snape.

A Slytherin. A Death Eater.

_Whose side am I on?_

"Damned magazine recipes! Are you all right? Speak to me." He was shaking her.

"I..." she gasped. "Just...memory..."

"Sarah? Damn it, I can't..." He had his wand out, wavering. "Sarah?"

No words would come. No words could mend what had happened.

"Damn it! _Legilimens!_"

He was trying to pry into her head. She could feel it, like a cold hand reaching inside. Perhaps nothing else could have brought her back to her senses as quickly as that sensation of violation. The instinct which had kept that memory hidden from herself for so long was not about to share it with the man who had called it out of hiding with such a teasing echo of her father's words.

She found herself staring into his black eyes. Her own felt as hard as stone. Behind them, the pain was draining out of the memory, all of it cold, all of it turning to stone.

He lowered his wand.

"Are you all right, now?"

Sarah shut her eyes for a moment. "I think so. Sort of." Somehow she found the edge of the bed and sat down.

"What happened? Was it the potion?"

"I don't think so." Sarah swallowed hard, still tasting raspberry. But whatever effect the potion had been having had been washed away in that flood of pain. "It was what you said."

She hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to tell him.

"What are you talking about?" The usual edge was back on his voice.

She looked him in the eyes again.

"I really _don't_ know," he said. "This may not be the best of times to say it, but you're as gifted a natural Occlumens as I...was at your age."

"That's really something, isn't it?" Sarah murmured weakly, sarcasm leaking in from somewhere. "I know how you hate giving compliments."

"All I saw was a glimpse—your parents, I assume. Fighting over you?" In the course of this comment, his words had softened until they were only as firm as his anxious grip on her shoulder.

"I hadn't thought about it in so long. I hadn't remembered. I didn't want to remember." She was hearing, in her own voice, the pain of the memory, more than feeling it now. "The day my mother took me away, my father said that sooner or later I would...that I would come back to _his_ side," the words tumbled out, choked, and she huddled down, wishing all of it could just disappear.

Snape stood up then, walked a few steps away. With his back to her he said, "It would appear that I am very good at picking out trouble." His words seemed to transmit a declaration of rejection that struck her as brutally as if he had backhanded her across the face.

"_Don't say that!_"

He turned around; perhaps the desperate note in her voice had told him that he had said something very wrong. "I did not mean _you_. I took on that trouble of my own accord. But this..." He pounded his clenched fist against the wall. "I would rather _choose_ whatever pain I inflict. Not find that I've set it off like a booby-trap."

"I didn't mean to disoblige you," Sarah said. She intended to sound bitter, sharp, but the words came out dull and hollow. She watched, in empty disbelief, as he came and knelt before her, reaching out a hand to cup her face.

"I didn't intend to hurt you. Not today. Gods, not with this." He ran his fingertips lightly over the emerald silk. "You chose this for me, didn't you? And look where that's led. _Damnable _holiday."

"It isn't your fault." Sarah shook her head. "You couldn't have known. _I_ didn't know. It just struck me so suddenly." Her voice cracked. "Because it was true, you know? It had come _true_."

Maybe he had no answer for that. She wished he did. Could he not at least say, _No, you're not on his side, you're on the right side?_ But one thing was enough, for the moment, to quiet her terror: he lifted her bodily into the bed and held her cradled against him, stroking her hair, sometimes softly, sometimes with a sense of his own pain in his fingertips. But he did not cease until the world went finally, mercifully away.

* * *

**A/N:** The Briar Rose is named in honor of my lifelong best friend Swtbrier, seamstress extraordinaire, who has been doing the majority of my proofreading for me. I know you're not supposed to put your own stuff into fics, but I actually own Sarah's little green number (a long-ago birthday present from the said Swtbrier) although mine doesn't have magically invisible straps; I'm sure it looks much better on the nubile Sarah than it does on middle-aged me (though I'm sure my husband would beg to differ, the dear man—18 years with him on the 12th, WOOO HOOO!). 


	21. Ch 20: Seething Shadows, Breathing Lies

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Trelawney's single line of dialogue—appearing in this chapter solely for continuity purposes—was first written by J. K. Rowling. That's not me. If I owned Harry Potter, why would I be bothering with this?

**A/N:** Sorry it took a little longer to add this chapter. I've been trying to keep far enough ahead on my rough drafts to allow room for retrofitting changes before I post, and I was getting caught up to myself a little too thoroughly.

Thank you once again to my loyal reviewers, cecelle, lucidity and Owlbait. And special thanks to cecelle for her kind input on the relative stresses of this chapter.

Something I forgot to mention in my author's notes last time—I got the name Raspberry Passion from the soda aisle in the supermarket. I just caught it out the corner of my eye as I went past, and the first thing I thought was "That would make a great potion!"

* * *

**Chapter 20: Seething Shadows, Breathing Lies**

Sarah had hoped, in spite of her successful efforts at toadying, that Professor Umbridge would forget all about her. But that did not seem to be happening. While it was true that the woman always blinked vacantly at her for instant when they passed in the hallways, the blank look was always replaced a moment later by a knowing smirk. It had been alarming, the first time it happened. Had the woman found them out? But when Sarah faked an awed and admiring look in return, Umbridge went on her way, pleased as punch.

As February wore itself out, there was not much for the High Inquisitor to be pleased about. Harry Potter—whom Umbridge appeared to dislike as much as Snape did—had been relaunched into celebrity by the publication of an interview in _The Quibbler_, a magazine that no sensible person had ever taken seriously before, but which had now become more popular and respected at Hogwarts than the _Daily Prophet_ had ever been. Despite a school-wide ban on the magazine, which Umbridge attempted to enforce with absurd rigor, everyone seemed to have read what Potter had to say about his experiences in the clutches of the Dark Lord last summer. When Sarah was caught in one of the Inquisitor's random hallway dragnets, she earned House points (and, unfortunately, a few glares from other students) by making a scoffing comment about the magazine: it was a piece of drivel, fit only to entertain the dunderheads who could be taken in by it. The truth was, however, that Sarah had already read Snape's copy.

"Undoubtedly exaggerated," he mocked, when she caught him with it. "But as unpleasant as the task may be, it's best to know exactly what is being sold as the truth. Particularly since everyone is now so eager to believe that our rising young star," he sneered at the description, "has been wronged by public opinion." As he scanned the article, he occasionally read out lines from it, making fun of the boy's turns of phrase. He never denied, however, that the incident had happened.

Sarah, after reading it herself, did not know what to think. Even if the boy had played up his role, either as victim or as hero, the experience had nevertheless been obviously horrifying. And more obviously—which was really the whole point, she thought—it was plain that the Dark Lord intended to resume the reign of terror that the Boy-Who-Inconveniently-Lived had so rudely interrupted fourteen years ago.

The real upshot of _The Quibbler _article, however, as far as it concerned Snape and herself, was that the Head of Slytherin House was having to spend a great deal of extra time on internal damage control in the wake of Potter's most damning revelations: accusations which placed certain of his students' fathers among the Death Eaters who had gathered to greet the Dark Lord's return. Snape, interestingly, had not been on that list. Whether that was because he had not been there, or because Potter had been leaned on by Professor Dumbledore to withhold that information, she did not know, and she was not willing to endure the grief that would come from asking. But more than once, Sarah waited silently in an empty bed while Snape dealt with unpredicted late-night hysteria, either in his office or in the Slytherin common room. For that—on top of the twice-weekly Occlumency lessons—she could almost feel resentful of the boy herself.

It wasn't only Potter, however, who was making her life difficult. Since the Azkaban escape, Snape had been called more than once through his Dark Mark to meet with Potter's nemesis, for reasons that Snape never divulged and Sarah had better sense than to question him about. On one occasion, early on, she had forgotten to check her bookmark before she came to his room and had spent a dire half hour pacing the suite, wondering anxiously where he was, before it occurred to her that he might have left her a note...back in her dormitory. She hadn't told him about that, and she had been careful to check first ever since. On the whole, however, Snape had been right—they saw nearly as little of each other as they had before the holidays.

* * *

The one and only benefit to that situation was the amount of time it gave her to spend over the Wolfsbane Potion. The concepts were finally beginning to clarify in her mind. She hoped. She wasn't sure whether the fact that, due to the constraints of time, several of her conceptual discussions with her teacher had been carried on under...well, distracting circumstances...made her more likely or less likely to remember what he had said. Nevertheless, he now had her attempting the potion itself. 

"I expect you to fail at least a dozen times before you get anywhere close," he told her, to her discouragement. "That does not mean, however, that you should not _try_ to get it right every single time that you make the attempt."

The first couple of efforts met with such obvious failure so early on in the process that Sarah was chagrined. She went back to her references to try to figure out where she had gone wrong. The whole potion, as Snape had indicated, relied on a sense of timing and a delicacy and instinct of touch that defied condensation into dry words on a page.

"It's a quest for perfection, Sarah," he murmured in her ear, his arms around her, his hands on hers as she chopped aconite root into tiny pieces of exactly the right size on a Saturday afternoon. The touch of his hands, unfortunately, was dulled by the necessity of wearing the snakeskin gloves for the process. The list of potions ingredients given in her book as "unsafe for handling during pregnancy" was actually not as long as she had feared it would be (and certainly not as long as the "unsafe for ingestion" list), but the aconite was definitely on it. She had found it necessary to skive off a couple of Potions lessons so far, just because the issue of safety in exposing herself to certain ingredients could not be addressed under the eyes of the rest of the class. Irritatingly, the fact that her non-attendance had been a result of his own orders (given, of course, in private) had not stopped Snape from taking off House points for her "unexcused absences" when she next appeared in class. Yes, it was a necessary part of their pretenses. But he didn't have to enjoy it so much, did he?

But the potion...it wasn't just a matter of putting the right things together in the right order. It wasn't even just the care in preparing the ingredients. Or the careful combinations, requiring a secondary brewing that was almost equally demanding before adding them to the main potion. It was the fact that _all_ of it had to done with just the right timing, just the right touch. It was—in another of the metaphors that he used to try to get the point across to her—like making love. It took concentration, effort, practice, and sometimes even a little luck to achieve the degree of skill necessary to produce the desired mutual combustion of ingredients.

In _those_ skills, she thought blushingly, they were _both_ improving, although she would never have said as much to him, unsure how he would take the implication about his previous performance. But the skills she required for the potion... There were moments when she thought she almost had managed it, but invariably everything came crashing down. And when Snape began responding to her failures with merely a curt, "Begin again," instead of a sharp dissection of where she had gone wrong, she was almost certain that he was beginning to give up on her.

For no sensible reason, she had taken to spending the Occlumency evenings in her little student lab. At least then she was in the same part of the castle as he was. As if somehow his potion-making skills could be transmitted to her through the stone walls while he was otherwise distracted. Bah. On a couple of occasions, when she was late going down to her work, she had met Potter as he came up the stairs after his lesson, looking pale and resentful. But it wasn't until a couple of weeks after the article in _The Quibbler_ came out that she caught even a glimpse of Snape on one of those nights.

She regretted afterward that she had.

She'd been in the middle of stirring the clubfoot moss into the moonstone mixture—three times clockwise, three times widdershins, alternating until the silver spoon had gone round 27 times—when she heard a scream. She muttered imprecations under her breath at the possibility of being interrupted, and thereby having her potion spoiled, intending simply to ignore whatever it was. She could find out later.

When the shriek was repeated a second time, however, and accompanied by the sound of pattering feet in the hallway outside, Sarah put down her spoon. If there was a real hazard in progress, it wasn't worth her life to persist with the potion, as difficult as that was to admit when she felt as if she were actually getting this part exactly right for a change. At least she had finished the stirring. The next step could wait a little while.

There was a crowd of mostly Slytherin students gathering at the top of the stairs that led up to the entrance hall. Sarah slipped through along the right-hand side of the staircase to find the hall ringed with curious students of all Houses, and a number of professors as well. McGonagall was standing in front of the Great Hall doors, looking on the scene before her with very thin lips.

The Divination mistress, Trelawney, appeared to have been sacked—at least her trunks were piled unceremoniously around her and she was in an awful state, which included being very obviously drunk. Was a disposition to drink, Sarah wondered, the reason for her dismissal? She had never taken Divination, so she was not familiar with the woman, except through the rumor mill, which could not seem to come to a consensus in her case. Some of the Gryffindor girls thought her brilliant, while other students thought she was a right fake.

It was clear what Professor Umbridge thought. She was standing at the foot of the main staircase with her sweet sneer stretching her wide mouth. Mockingly, she said, "Really, Trelawney, you must simply face the facts."

"No!" Trelawney screamed. "NO!"

Just at that moment Sarah caught sight of Snape among the Slytherin students near the left-hand side of the dungeon stairs, and without quite meaning to, she found herself sidling through the crowd to get at least a little closer to him. With everyone enthralled by the horrible tirades that the hapless Divination professor and the Hogwarts High Inquisitor were launching at each other, no one was going to notice where Sarah Darkglass, of all people, was standing. Indeed, it would merely seem as if she were trying to get out of the knot of Slytherins to take refuge with the Gryffindors who were gathered further along to the left.

Just as McGonagall stepped into the fray, trying to comfort and reassure her weeping colleague, Snape glanced at Sarah. Well, not exactly _at_ her. His eyes were sweeping over the Slytherin students, as if trying to evaluate their reaction to this event. He only happened to see her.

He didn't know her. At least, no more than he had in the years before last Halloween. She had not realized before that the carefully controlled looks he sent her way, when ordinary classroom necessity required him to do so, had been full of private intensity behind that indifferent veil he drew down for safety's sake. But the look he favored her with now was...empty. Empty of anything but a disdainful curiosity at finding a Gryffindor student amongst his Slytherins.

It was as if he had struck her. As if he had torn the ring from her neck. As if he had pointed at the door and told her to leave.

Which was..._absurd_, she chided herself. She knew, didn't she, that he had been somehow expunging her from his thoughts on Occlumency nights in order to avoid accidentally revealing their relationship to Potter? Maybe that had not seemed possible. It had not seemed real. But it clearly was.

He blinked, and there was the glimmer of something...a purely intellectual recognition of who she really was to him. But the damage was already done. Sarah turned and slipped back through the crowd, heading for her lab in the dungeon. There were no echoing footsteps behind her. Inside her workspace, she slammed the door and locked it.

_Pull yourself together, girl! He told you, didn't he? It was an idiotic thing to do, looking for him in front of everyone like that, even if he hadn't already warned you about what it would be like on Occlumency nights._

He had never once seemed to feel differently toward her the day after an Occlumency lesson. Well, no, that wasn't true. He seemed to value her more, although the difference was subtle enough that she had put it down to the mere fact of her absence from his bed the night previous. And she had gotten used to be being valued, to having a meaning in his life that she had in no one else's. The idea that that meaning might someday disappear as thoroughly as it did during Potter's lessons...

Sarah sank down on the tall stool she had co-opted from one of the storerooms, and ran a hand across her belly. It wasn't noticeably bulging, even to the flat of her hand, although there was now a hard knot inside her abdomen that made it uncomfortable to lie on her stomach. An exchange of discomforts, since the time between necessary doses of ginger root had lengthened to the point where she sometimes forgot altogether to take it. At times she forgot altogether that there was a life growing inside her—although never for very long: something always reminded her.

_Severian_.

Sarah had tried not to think too much about the future. Finishing the year without revealing themselves and getting through her N.E.W.T.s with high enough marks were quite enough difficulties to be going on with. Giving birth was still a distant anxiety, like something too far off to worry about it ever happening. And of the things that came after that, only her apprenticeship seemed real.

Sensibly she knew that she couldn't possibly keep a baby with her at Hogwarts. Her original plan (once, before Snape had turned it all upside down) had been to leave Severian in Aunt Portia's care much of the time while she completed her apprenticeship. But even if someone else acceptable could be found to foster him with, Sarah was finding the idea of giving her child out of her own keeping less and less acceptable to her.

Yet, even supposing she were willing to give up her studies for the sake of motherhood, any vision of domestic bliss was a cheat. Snape was a teacher. More that that, he was a Head of House. He was not going to be living anywhere away from Hogwarts, not even a cottage in Hogsmeade. If the all-knowing Headmaster Dumbledore had any brilliant solutions to that problem planned, the information had not trickled down to her.

What struck her now, after what had just happened upstairs, was that all of these thoughts about the future relied on the assumption that the bond between her and Severus had been sealed definitively by the as-yet-invisible existence of their child. But she knew, from her own experience, that such bonds did not always last. That a child might not be shared together in joy, even if its parents were devoted to one another to begin with. It had been Sarah, in fact, who had driven her parents apart. Maybe nothing she had done herself, true. But control over her future had still been the chief source of their arguments. And her parents (or at least her mother) had been very deeply in love. She and Severus did not share anything like that—just lust and a vague mutual comfort in the other's presence. At least she liked to believe that it was mutual.

He cared about Severian more than he did about her—he had said as much that night up on the Astronomy Tower. For now she was necessary. But how long after Severian's birth would that last? How long would it be before she became superfluous—a barrier between Severus and whatever choices he wanted to make for his son? He had not even agreed to (in fact, did not even know about) her choice of the baby's name. What if he...?

No. This was getting absolutely maudlin. She was borrowing trouble, to use one of Aunt Portia's favorite expressions. There was absolutely nothing she could do right now to solve any of the things she feared.

She would finish the moonstone solution; hopefully nothing would go wrong with that. And then she would go to her room and go to sleep. Tomorrow she would have classes, do homework. Tomorrow night she would be back in his rooms, and everything would be as it had been.

She would _not_ think about how long that was going to last.

* * *

During breakfast, Sarah got an owl post. At first she thought it must be from Aunt Portia—probably some snippy reply to her requests for at least a little more money in her school account. It turned out, however, to be from Professor Umbridge. A glance at the staff table revealed that the toady woman was watching the student tables with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Sarah opened the letter. 

_My dear Miss Darkglass,  
__I request your presence in my office today, immediately after lunch. My notes indicate that you might be interested in being involved in helping me with a little project. I hope I can have confidence in you.  
_(signed) _Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor_

What on earth was that about? Notes? Had the woman actually taken _notes_ about that insipid appointment, in her fat little diary? Sarah had never tried to suck up to a teacher before. In the case of Umbridge, it had seemed expedient. If she had known that it would result in having this kind of notice taken of her, she would never have done it. And now, clearly, she would have to go this requested meeting or risk incurring the woman's formidable wrath. Hadn't it occurred to Umbridge, if she _had_ taken worthwhile notes, that Sarah would be far too busy to take on anything else?

Sarah trudged upstairs to Umbridge's office after wolfing down her lunch (she found that she had developed an unaccountable craving for fried fish—something she had never cared much for in the past—which had appeared unexpectedly on the menu today). She hoped that whatever it was about, it would not last so long as to make her late for Potions. She was surprised, upon knocking and entering, to find that she was not the only student present. There were at least a dozen, all from the upper years, mostly Slytherins. One of them was Draco Malfoy. He was not the only one (she realized as she looked around the room) whose father had been named as a Death Eater by Potter.

"What's _she_ doing here?" Malfoy asked, when he saw Sarah come in.

"Now, now, Draco," Umbridge said. "We mustn't let House prejudices get in the way of achieving our purposes. I imagine that Miss Darkglass's background is as good as your own."

The boy sneered, but shut up. Sarah felt again the urge to smack him, but restrained herself.

"As I am aware," Umbridge began addressing the group, "you all have classes to get to, so I will be brief and to the point. After last night's little demonstration, it has become clear to me that the headmaster is, sadly, failing in his judgment."

Sarah had heard, from her dorm mates, that Dumbledore had finally appeared on the scene, decreeing on the one hand that Trelawney would continue to live at Hogwarts, in spite of having been sacked, and on the other hand had brought in a new Divination teacher before Umbridge could even make a move toward appointing one herself: the new teacher was a centaur. At this point in Umbridge's speech, there were several disgusted murmurs from the some members the group about being taught by animals.

"The Ministry are relying upon me to protect the integrity of Hogwarts, but it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to accomplish that task alone. Therefore, I have selected you—all students whom I believe are intelligent and trustworthy and uncorrupted by the faults that have occurred in your education up to now—to form the core of a student organization that will assist me in ensuring that control is maintained. The prefect system, I fear, may be compromised by an unthinking loyalty to the present headmaster. I need you to help me circumvent any problems that may cause in the future."

Mutiny, Sarah thought. The woman was plotting mutiny against Dumbledore.

"What are we then?" one of the younger Slytherin girls spoke up. "_Special_ prefects who report to _you?_"

"If you choose to accept this assignment—and I hope you all will," Umbridge raked the room with a piercing gaze, "you will be elite members of my Inquisitorial Squad."

Sarah watched sly smiles spread across the faces of the other students.

"Naturally," Umbridge went on, "your existence must remain secret for the time being. You will report to me on anything you discover about rule-breaking, not just by other students, but also by any of your teachers, particularly with respect to the Ministry's recent educational decrees. I hope that I can assure you that in time your work will be well-rewarded."

It was only due to copious amounts of practice in hiding the truth from her Potions classmates that Sarah was able to school her face to reflect a careful neutrality of feelings. She was asking them to be snarking spies, for goodness sake!

"Now, I will allow you to return to your classes. If you have any individual questions, please feel free to speak with me at any time."

Most of the students filed out, deep in conversation, mutual in their enthusiasm. Sarah stayed behind. She listened as a sixth year Slytherin attempted to clarify exactly what he would be getting out of this. Umbridge spouted some drivel about patience and rewards that seemed to only partly satisfy him, but he went off, nonetheless, looking pleased to have been singled out for consideration.

"Yes, Miss Darkglass?" Umbridge said, when only the two of them remained. She raised her eyebrows, as if she could not imagine what questions the young woman might have.

"I'm very flattered that you thought of me," Sarah began.

"Yes?" interrupted Umbridge, in a tone of voice that gave a firmly negative answer to Sarah's hopes of making some excuse to refuse the honor the High Inquisitor was trying to bestow upon her.

"I'm just surprised, that's all," Sarah finished lamely.

"Why, my dear? Because you're in Gryffindor House?"

"Well, yes," Sarah agreed. "I couldn't help noticing that I'm the only one, and..."

"That's why you're all the more valuable to me...what's your given name?"

"Sarah."

"Yes, you see, Sarah, your point of view and your background are so rare among members of that House. I hate to criticize your House mates to you, but some of them appear to have been born troublemakers. And Professor Dumbledore shows no inclination to nip these problems in the bud, before he turns them out to become a problem to Wizarding society. With your help, we may be able to pinpoint the sources of the trouble, so they can be appropriately dealt with, rather than unnecessarily condemning innocent members of your House. I do hope you are willing to help me?" the little-girl voice squeaked upward. The threat behind it, however, sounded nothing like a little girl's.

"Yes," Sarah answered. "Yes, of course, Professor Umbridge." She forced a smile onto her face. "I'm honored."

"I am glad that you consider my confidence in you an honor." There were knives behind the woman's answering smile. "I hope that you will be one of my most effective agents."

Sarah nodded stupidly, her mind racing in a panic about how she would manage to satisfy this woman's expectations. At last she managed, "Of course, I'm sure you remember, Professor, that I'm very busy preparing for my N.E.W.T.s. The apprenticeship, you know."

The woman's blink was enough to tell her that she had, indeed, forgotten that aspect of their conversation, whatever she had written in her notes. "I'm sure you'll do your best to bring me whatever you can," Umbridge said tightly.

"Yes, I shall," Sarah said, trying to sound reassuring. "I do need to get to Potions now, ma'am, but thank you."

"You're quite welcome, my dear."

Sarah could hear the falseness of the woman's smile in her voice as she turned to go. Umbridge suspected her already. If not of disloyalty, then at least of a lack of enthusiasm. And if Umbridge managed to break the supposed jinx on the Dark Arts position and remained at Hogwarts indefinitely... If, heaven forbid, her mutiny succeeded and she became headmistress... Sarah could not afford to give the woman a reason to dislike her.

_How_, she wondered, as she hurried down the stairs with her heart pounding, _had Snape been drawn into the Dark Lord's service?_

* * *

**A/N:** There seem to be a lot of different theories about how the Pensieve works, as far as what happens to your brain while your memories are in it. Not having any very strong opinion on the subject, I chose the one that suited my purposes. How's that for authorial power? I hope you enjoy this little behind-the-scenes business. It didn't seem to me as if the Inquisitorial Squad could have sprung into being overnight, as it seems to from Harry's perspective. 


	22. Ch 21: Look at Your Face in the Mirror

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Severus and the other people you know from the books are J. K. Rowling's, as is the world they live in. Sarah and anyone/anything you don't recognize are mine. That's easy, isn't it?

**A/N:** As usual, many, many thanks to my faithful reviewers, Owlbait, lucidity and cecelle. And I'd love to hear from the rest of you, honest! Yes, cecelle, I definitely see Roz when I think of Umbridge!

One thing I forgot to mention in last chapter's notes was that Sarah's fried fish craving was based on my own inexplicable craving for corn dogs in my first pregnancy. I don't think they'd have corn dogs at Hogwarts, though. Alas, poor Brits. I couldn't eat corn dogs, before—the texture made me gag. Suddenly, I couldn't get enough of them. Go figure.

There's a new character in this chapter whose first and last names are taken from two different books by one of my favorite SF authors. If you recognize the sources, I hope you'll agree that the name is fitting. Again, we'll be seeing the events of OotP from a different perspective. I hope people are enjoying that.

* * *

**Chapter 21: Look at Your Face in the Mirror**

"What am I supposed to do?" Sarah fretted, after telling Snape what had occurred in Umbridge's office.

"Why are you asking _me?_" he replied, a little sharply. Perhaps he had taken the news of the heavy involvement of his Slytherins in Umbridge's little plot badly. On the other hand, admittedly, he was busy with his own Wolfsbane Potion. She watched his confident operations with envy.

"Because you're a _spy_. You know how deal with this."

He looked up from his work. "You are _not_ going to spy for Dolores Umbridge," he said flatly, in the tone she had to learned recognize as signifying _an-inarguable-order-from-your-husband_.

"I can't back out of this now," she protested. "If I don't do what she expects of me, I'm going to have her as an enemy. And we really can't afford that, _can we?_" She let her own voice creep into the _you-know-I'm-right_ range.

He grimaced. "You should have avoided getting into this to begin with."

_You're hardly one to tell me that_, Sarah was on the verge of saying. But he must have anticipated her reaction, read her accusation in her eyes, and he went on before she could speak.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he said. "It means you're going to have to get your fellow Gryffindors into trouble. Perhaps a great deal of trouble. And while that does not bother me in the slightest, I wonder if you are up to it."

Sarah brought her laced fingers to her lips, let her eyes drop. "I'm not sure. That's why I'm asking you how to manage it."

His attention was drawn away at that moment by the demands of the potion. She followed along with him in her mind, trying to commit the finer details of his technique to memory. When he reached a stopping point, he turned to her, his expression dark.

"I'm assuming that you don't want Dolores Umbridge to win?"

"Of course not! Why would you think that?"

"You do have reasons to dislike Professor Dumbledore," he said smoothly. Upon her astonishment, he added, "Do you not?"

Sarah pondered this curious assertion. Professor Dumbledore had never done anything to her. Well, up until the past Christmas. He had treated her with great kindness and sympathy when her mother died. She had not really believed that he would continue to take a particular interest in her, had she? And as for what had happened on Boxing Day...

She had assumed that it was all Snape's fault, all his idea. But now, as she put together certain things he had said, certain things McGonagall had said, she wondered to what extent it had been the headmaster who had decided to use the situation to his advantage. None of this—her marriage, her living circumstances, her intended role as Snape's goodwill token to the Dark Lord—none of it could have been arranged without Dumbledore's approval.

"He did force you to marry me, after all," Snape sneered, as if she needed encouragement.

Having come to terms with her situation, it was unpleasant to be reminded of that day. The misery and despair were best forgotten if she wanted to have any happiness in the present. She could not sustain that kind of anger and still co-exist in peace with him. But if she could somehow blame Dumbledore and McGonagall for their roles in the whole fiasco...

She remembered the headmaster's duplicity, trying to get her to name Severus Snape as her accomplice before revealing that he already knew the truth. His quiet self-assurance that matters would go as he decreed. The only thing he lacked to be despicable was arrogance...and was that simply covered up by the guise of a kindly old man? And what about McGonagall, refusing to listen to Sarah's pleas? Wasn't her Head of House supposed to protect her? Wasn't it her fault that Sarah had been r—

Sarah's breath caught in her throat. No, that was unfair. The person responsible for that was standing right here.

"What are you trying to do to me?" she asked coldly. There was a bitter satisfaction in his eyes that made her doubt his motives.

"Trying to teach you that you can find a reason to hate anybody, should that prove necessary."

_One of those requisite lessons in darkness_. Even knowing that, her soul rebelled. "I don't want to hate anyone."

"Not even me?"

"Not even you!" If his stance had not been so forbidding, she would have been tempted to press herself to his chest, seeking solace. Or giving it. "Especially not you."

"Sarah," he said sternly, "if you are going to play at this very hazardous game, you must find sufficiently dark reasons for your actions, reasons that will drive you to carry through with the things you need to do. If you hesitate to act because of pity or mercy, you will not be convincing, and you will _fail_."

"Are you trying to turn me into...into _you?_" The idea was as distressing as it was suddenly unavoidable.

"You truly want to know the answer to that?" He stared at her until she felt compelled to look away. "No, no more than I have to. Even that is too much. But let me tell you this," his voice tightened. "It is far too easy for me to find reasons to do to you whatever I think necessary." He took a threatening step toward her, took her roughly by the shoulders and made her look into his eyes again. If she had forgotten who and what he was, that merciless gaze gave her no choice but to remember. "I could corrupt every spark of innocence left in you, Sarah, and I could enjoy doing it, too. But that isn't what I want." He let her go, almost as if in disgust, whether at her or at himself, she couldn't say. "I told you before, I don't want you turning spy for Umbridge. But if you are going to do it, I insist that you do it _right_."

"I've managed so far." She lifted her chin, trying to get back her self-possession.

"And when the time comes to tell Umbridge something worth knowing? Let me assure you, as eager as she is for flattery, the woman wants results, and so far she has not got enough to suit her. If you fail to bring her someone's head, or at least some other useful piece of their anatomy, she will eventually decide that you are worthless. That is, if she doesn't decide you are an outright traitor to her cause. Either way, she will despise you, and probably look for a way to punish you." His upper lip twisted, as if in sympathy to the idea. "There is some small chance," he went on, "that you can make yourself appear entirely earnest in her service but incompetent despite your efforts. However, I have no idea how she will react to that."

"You think I should give her what she wants?" Which was, of course, the conclusion she had come to herself. And the reason she had sought his advice.

"I think you have no choice except to betray your House mates, if you wish to remain in her good graces. Which, as you pointed out," he added smugly, "would be in _our_ best interests."

"I just don't know how to do that," Sarah said.

"Whom do you dislike? Who has caused trouble for you? Who is doing something contrary to those decrees of hers?"

"You are," Sarah pointed out bluntly. The look of surprise, even of alarm—that perhaps he had convinced her so well that she would betray even him—was strangely satisfying. "Your lessons with Harry Potter are strictly against the decree she posted at the beginning of term."

"For information like that," he breathed, "Dolores Umbridge would give you anything within Cornelius Fudge's power to grant. You know that? Three heads on a very large platter: Potter's and mine and the headmaster's."

"Well, of course I can't tell her that," Sarah said. She added coyly, "Unless part of the deal I made was to clear _you_ of any wrong-doing. Set us up with a little shop of our own somewhere." She was only half-jesting, and that half didn't seem to be coming through in her voice.

For a moment his expressions shifted like wind-blown sand, as they so often did, but then his countenance hardened to rock. "You realize, of course, what the price for that would be?"

Sarah felt ashamed of herself. "Potter expelled. Dumbledore sacked by the Ministry."

"We might be able to survive one or both of those events. Preferably Potter's expulsion," he said. "Although Fudge is not likely to stop with a mere sacking, in Dumbledore's case. This goes much deeper than that. Right down to the question of who you want to win."

She didn't think he was merely referring to Umbridge. "She isn't...working for the Dark Lord?" Sarah was shaken. _And what about Fudge, and the Ministry..._

"I don't know. My inquiries have been brushed aside, and I have not pressed the issue. But it does not really matter whether she is or not. Not every person in this world who means ill has taken service with him. And in the end, that only proves to his advantage. The Ministry's denial of his return makes his work easier for the present. He has much to set in place if he is to regain the power and especially the influence that he once possessed. With the Ministry in unchallenged control of Hogwarts, it would become easier to infiltrate the curriculum with ideas that will encourage acceptance of his rule."

Sarah frowned deeply. "I don't want that to happen."

"Then the best advice I can give you," he said, "is this: the main thing you must remember when you are spying for the enemy is to deliver information with the most perceived value, but that in fact causes the least real harm. House points mean nothing. Detentions mean nothing. But delivering a steady series of small victories will keep you approved-of and yet unnoticed in the larger scheme of things. And at that, as you well know, you excel."

"But _she_ noticed me," Sarah pointed out. Then, anxiously, "Could the spell be wearing off? Did it get...broken?" _By you_, she meant, although she couldn't say it.

"I doubt that very much." He shrugged. "You have something she wants. As long as that remains true, she has a powerful reason to keep you in mind. If you make yourself a small but useful part of her machinations she will have less and less cause to think about you."

She looked up at him, frustrated, wishing his advice had been different, easier to live with. But she could see plainly that he had nothing more to offer on the subject. His eyes were beginning to take on that shuttered look that told her when a topic was closed for discussion.

Sarah had been compelled, many times over the last several months, to feel the difference in their ages, in their physical strength, in their potion-making abilities, in their magical knowledge and power. She had always brushed those feelings aside as quickly as possible, knowing that an outward demonstration of her strength of will was her only chance not to be utterly dominated by him. But now she wanted nothing more than to be protected by him, saved from her own foolishness, treated like a little girl. Half-blinded with sudden anxiety, and heedless of his aloofness, she sought out his embrace.

He held her close. But his voice, when he spoke, was cold. Cold enough that she knew it had been a mistake to allow herself to feel so helpless. And yet she couldn't let go. "I don't feel sorry for you, Sarah. You got yourself into this situation, and you didn't think quickly enough to get yourself out again before it was too late. And now you will have to live with the consequences." She felt his lips whispering at the top her head. "We will both have to live with the consequences."

* * *

Deciding what to tell Umbridge was even more difficult than she thought it would be. At first, she considered the possibility of revealing the hidden copies of _The Quibbler_. Now that everyone had read and re-read the article about Harry Potter, it wouldn't be a trial to part people from their magazines. The problem was that Umbridge had decreed expulsion as the penalty for possessing it, and Sarah had no desire to get anyone expelled...at least no one in Gryffindor House. And it wouldn't go over well to try to get a fellow Squad member—say, Draco Malfoy—expelled. 

Sarah had never realized before that she typically paid as little attention to her classmates as they did to her. Now that she was trying to uncover misdeeds to report, she discovered that it simply wasn't in her nature to be nosy. When Umbridge set her Junior Inquisitors the task of going through all the owl post entering or leaving Hogwarts, Sarah found herself cringing inwardly every time she had to magically open a seal without breaking it. (It was not Severus alone, it seemed, who was teaching her Dark spells, although Umbridge was quick to bring up the necessity of the Ministry maintaining order at the school—_at any cost_, the woman said.)

Snooping through people's letters, however, was a fairly unproductive activity, since most students did not share their rule-breaking with their parents. Knowing that she would soon have to do something more to satisfy the High Inquisitor, Sarah settled on a plan that, while it cost Gryffindor House no direct loss of points, probably resulted in her House mates becoming so unpopular in general with Professor Umbridge that they tended to lose more points to her, here and there, than they otherwise would have in the course of their daily studies. Taking Snape's advice about maximal value and minimal damage to heart, Sarah began reporting on all the conversations she overheard in the Gryffindor common room in which Umbridge featured negatively. Umbridge could not confront her critics without revealing the presence of her spy. And while that infuriated her, she fortunately turned her invective upon the victims of Sarah's reports rather than Sarah herself. The woman seemed to take a brutal delight in knowing how unpopular she was in Gryffindor House.

Even that would not be enough for long, Sarah was sure. So, gradually she developed an ear for picking up on the plotting of minor infractions and forbidden trysts. Between those overheard conversations and her postal invasions, she learned things she had never supposed about her House mates, things that frequently aroused her sympathies. Almost from the beginning, it was as difficult to come to terms with her conscience as Snape had warned her it would be.

Worst of all, she discovered, to her dismay, that in spite of all her efforts to manage things to the contrary, it was becoming nearly impossible to make her reports at all, let alone convincingly, without telling herself—at least temporarily—that her victims were in some degree deserving of their fate. They had never even _tried_ to be her friends, tainted as she was by her father's name. And they _were_ breaking the rules. But the hypocrisy of using that information to protect her own far grosser rule-breaking did not escape her. And although Severus had reported the situation to Professor Dumbledore, who seemed to approve of it, Sarah had no confidence that she was learning anything truly worthwhile in return. Certainly the value of her role was not clear enough that she could use the argument of the greater good—no good, fact, beyond her own selfish self-interest—to justify her tattling. She left her sessions with Umbridge feeling dirty in a way that no amount of soap and water could wash off. And it did not help to see the mingled regret and satisfaction in Severus's eyes when he perceived the effect it was having upon her.

One piece of information that she kept completely to herself was the discovery that there was some kind of secret organization, which was meeting (naturally) in defiance of Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. Harry Potter and his friends, as well as several of her own dorm mates, were involved. It would have been a prize. And yet she said nothing about it to anyone.

Partly it was to spite Snape. Sarah had grown rather tired of hearing about the faults he saw in the young man. And although his expulsion would probably mean an end to the Occlumency lessons, the fact that even Snape considered the boy important—a fact which she discerned more from his criticisms than any outright admission to that effect—made her hesitant to get Potter into trouble.

Besides, Umbridge had other informants on that subject. One of the Ravenclaw members of the Inquisitorial Squad reported it first, and the urgency with which the Inquisitor insisted they all pursue the matter finally led Sarah to admit that she had heard vague rumors that such a group existed, although she denied knowing who among the Gryffindors might be a member.

At the Squad's last weekly Saturday meeting before the start of the Easter holidays, Morgaine Lukas, the Ravenclaw seventh year who had brought the illegal group to Umbridge's attention to begin with, announced that she might have a witness. She had overheard a girl discussing the group's activities with her best friend. The girl had denied knowing anything when Morgaine questioned her about it, but it was clear that she knew something.

"Who is this wavering child?" Umbridge wanted to know. "Perhaps she can be convinced of the error of her ways."

Sarah noted with some satisfaction that even Morgaine Lukas had to think twice before turning in a fellow student to the likes of Umbridge.

"Maybe it would be better if I keep trying to convince her myself..."

"The girl's _name_, Miss Lukas?"

"Marietta Edgecombe."

That horrible smile stretched across Umbridge's face until it seemed as if it might split in two. "Well, well, isn't that interesting? Well done, Morgaine. Yes, very well done indeed."

"Are we going to catch them?" Malfoy blurted out eagerly.

"Oh yes, I believe we are." She bent to open a drawer in her desk, and came up with a small box. Inside was a silvery jumble, some sort of jewelry. Umbridge reached in and brought out an individual piece: a narrow bar with crossbars at each end; as she held it up, Sarah realized that it was the letter 'I', with a pin on the back.

"I took the liberty of ordering these in advance. Once I feel comfortable with the idea of your positions being known to the student body, you'll be able to wear them openly. For now, keep them hidden, but close to your skin. Anytime I need your attendance upon me, they will buzz slightly." She distributed the pins to her Inquisitorial Squad; her smile had not faded in the least.

* * *

"There's trouble brewing," Sarah told Snape, showing him the pin that afternoon in his office. Now that she had a lab in the dungeons and a complex Potions project in progress, it was no longer suspicious for her to be seen here...as long as it wasn't too often. And this was business. "If this Edgecombe girl knows something, and if Umbridge forces her to rat on her friends..." 

Snape was frowning at the silver 'I' she had placed in his palm. "What possible real harm can come from her catching students holding a secret meeting?"

Sarah gritted her teeth, but she had no choice but to tell him. "Because Harry Potter is involved in it."

"Oh, really?" Snape smirked.

Sarah growled and snatched the pin back. "You're no help!"

He really could not keep the smile off his face, although he was making something of an effort. "I'll tell Professor Dumbledore about the pins," he assured her.

Sarah stalked out of his office, disgusted. He was like...like a schoolboy trying to win a pissing contest! What business had a grown man carrying on such a petty battle with a boy of fifteen? It was ridiculous!

Her forceful strides began to drain her energy, which had become increasingly low. Naps were now requisite, and once, when she fell asleep after dinner, she had slept right through until morning, much to Severus's distress. Her frequent sleepiness had garnered a few sympathetic and commiserative comments from her dorm mates, who naturally assumed that her exhaustion was a result of the long hours she was spending on preparing for her N.E.W.T.s. There were moments when she could not help feeling that she had been invaded by some parasitic creature that was sucking out her life energy. All of this, her book assured her, was quite normal. It recommended a few mild strengthening tonics, but pointed out, rather bluntly, that she was now living for two and she was going to feel the effects of it.

What to do...? Seek out Professor Dumbledore, to tell him herself? In which case, she thought ruefully, the headmaster would question Snape about it afterward...and then Snape would know she hadn't trusted him. She could not face him after something like that. Especially if it turned out that he had intended to tell Dumbledore all along.

McGonagall, then? Sarah turned down the hallway toward her office. After only a few steps, she stopped. Even if she asked her Head of House not to tell Professor Dumbledore about what Sarah knew, no doubt McGonagall's unbending nature would compel her to do so if she thought it necessary. Sarah was not even sure that her underground membership in the Inquisitorial Squad was known to McGonagall. Given that Snape reported what Sarah told him directly to Dumbledore, it was possible that she did not. And if that were the case, McGonagall would go immediately to Dumbledore for an explanation of why one of her students—one who was already in a precarious position—was being encouraged to act as Umbridge's spy. Which left her right back where she started.

So...if she went to Dumbledore, but asked him not to tell Snape? That, however, did not cast a very good light on Snape. And as aggravated as she was with him at present, she didn't want to get him into trouble with the headmaster. Dumbledore would not have assigned him to teach Potter Occlumency if he did not believe Severus could act responsibly toward the boy. For her to express doubts in him...for her to hint that they were quarrelling over Potter...no, that did not look good at all.

The important thing, Sarah decided, was to prevent Potter from getting caught by Umbridge. The problem was that Sarah had no idea what Edgecombe knew. Nothing, maybe, in which case all this worry was for nothing. It was even possible, Sarah considered for the first time, that the Ravenclaw group had nothing to do with Potter's group. After all, it was not usual for students to cross House lines, even in making friendships, let alone in forming secret societies. Even if the Ravenclaw girl _did_ spill her guts and _did_ accuse Potter, it would probably be her word against his. And it wasn't as if she could go up to the boy and just vaguely say, _Be careful. Umbridge suspects you_. He didn't even know her. And a comment like that could well point suspicions in her direction, if anyone started to wonder who was telling on them.

Finally, Sarah decided to deal with the problem at its source: she would have to seek out Marietta Edgecombe. As the students straggled out of the Great Hall after dinner, Sarah sidled up to one of the older Ravenclaw girls, after a quick look around to make sure none of her fellow I.S. members were nearby to overhear, and asked, "Could you point out Marietta Edgecombe to me?"

"What do you need her for?" the girl, a slender redhead, asked.

She'd been afraid there would be questions. "Someone mentioned that she might know something unique about a project I'm working on. But I don't know her myself."

"Hey, Cho!" The redhead stopped another Ravenclaw, a pretty girl with straight black hair and almond-shaped eyes that Sarah recognized vaguely as being on her House's Quidditch team. "I didn't see Marietta at dinner. Do you know where she is? This—" the girl stopped short, waiting for a name to be supplied.

"Uh, Sarah."

"Sarah needs to talk to her."

Cho frowned sheepishly. "She's gone for the weekend. Her mum came and picked her up this afternoon. Wanted to take her shopping before a special family get-together or something. Sorry." She shrugged.

"Okay," Sarah said, her heart sinking. "I'll just have to ask another time. Thanks anyway," she added to both girls.

As she turned away, she saw Morgaine Lukas watching at her from across the entrance hall.

_Oh, shit!_

_No, calm down, don't look guilty, for goodness sake. _Sarah tried to move along with the crowd that was heading toward the stairs, as if she had never had any intention to do anything except go to up her own common room.

_All right, how bad is this?_ Morgaine could not possibly have heard her question, not over the burble of noise the other students were making. But she had seen her talking to two girls in Ravenclaw uniforms. Now, if it turned out that there was any hint that someone had been forewarned, Morgaine could suggest who might have been responsible.

Sarah needed a nap. Definitely. And if she didn't wake up until morning again...well, that was the price that Severus had to pay. Damn all of it.

* * *

**A/N:** Poor pregnant Sarah. I'm _so_ glad that I'm never going to do that again. I couldn't survive it, at my age. 

In case you've forgotten this detail from the book, Marietta's mother is one of Umbridge's cronies at the Ministry. That's why our least favorite toad is so pleased about that little piece of information.

Up next: the D.A. is discovered.


	23. Ch 22: Those Who Speak of What They Know

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** We all know who owns Harry Potter. We all know that none of us fic writers are trying to infringe on her copyright. I do this because I love her world and characters, not to be a pain to anyone, least of all JKR.

**A/N:** I feel like my brain has been suffering a severe meltdown lately. Self-Occlumency? Anyway, if I'm less than coherent in my notes, that's why.

Thank you, wonderful reviewers! That's you, cecelle, and you, lucidity. Who else do I see in my Magic Mirror? Ah, yes, I see zhaneraal and Lady Whitehart...and I'd see _you_, if you'd review.

The Morgaine I was thinking of is from C. J. Cherryh's very first novel, _The Gate of Ivrel_ (and three other subsequent books). Let's put it this way...bad things happen around her, often to innocent people, although that's usually not her intention. The Lukases are the bad family in the Hugo-award-winning _Downbelow Station_.

Now, without further ado, let's set the wheels in motion...

* * *

**Chapter 22: Those Who Speak of What They Know**

It was very late when Sarah woke up from her nap...after midnight at least. Quickly arranging her protective spells, she sat at the end of the bed and turned her ring three times.

She arrived in darkness. The bed rustled as he stirred, aware on some level of her arrival. But he was, curiously enough, asleep.

Perhaps she should simply go back to her own bed, although she was struck with a sudden temptation to curl up next to him for the rest of the night. However unreasonable it was to take such a risk—and as profoundly uncomfortable as it could be to share bed space with another restless body—she had never felt quite as safe sleeping alone after the Christmas holidays. Safe. Hah. That made a lot of sense: the bed of a Death Eater, the Dark Lord's spy inside Hogwarts, as the safest place to sleep. On the other hand, she realized grimly, that _did_ make a lot of sense, looked at in a certain way. She frowned.

"I'm here," she whispered, crawling up beside him.

He made a groggy sound, then she felt him start. "Torches, minimum," he mumbled, and a pale light flared, revealing his wand hand raised, his eyes scarcely open. He asked, still groggily, "What are you doing here?"

"I woke up late from my nap. I just thought I'd see if you were awake."

"You weren't supposed to come tonight," he groaned, letting his hand drop back onto the covers.

"Why?" she asked, then suddenly realized her mistake.

"Aaaagh, you fool." The force of the accusation was blunted somewhat by the fact that he couldn't seem to fully wake up. "Your bookmark."

"I know, I know." Sarah grimaced. "I'm sorry, I only just woke up myself, and it was so late I didn't even think about checking."

He groaned again, murmuring something unintelligible. Sarah was beginning to wonder if he had taken Dreamless Sleep. In suspicion of what his note had said, she brushed up the sleeve of his nightshirt. Reacting sleepily, he tried to push her hand away, but not before she saw that the Dark Mark stood out very sharply against his pale skin, as it did only when he had recently been summoned. If whatever he had seen had been bad enough that he wanted no risk of nightmares...

"I'm sorry," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "I'm so sorry. Go back to sleep. Torches, nox."

Arranging herself properly, she turned her ring and found herself back in Gryffindor Tower. Once she had shoved the doll back under the mattress, she curled up in a tight ball on her side, trying not to think about anything at all, hoping that the nightmares he was not having would spare her as well.

* * *

If he remembered her unsanctioned visit, he gave no sign of it when she appeared on Sunday after lunch. He also gave no signs of remembering their quarrel the day before. She was disinclined to remind him. This was the day he had set for her first formal attempt at finishing the Wolfsbane Potion under the conditions of the examination. She had gathered up her pre-prepared ingredients in her workroom, cradling them carefully on her lap before using the Portkey to move unseen to his quarters. 

He had set up a space for her in his own workroom, and after they had moved all her materials and taken care of some other business, Sarah stood in front of the cauldron she was using, trying to focus, to find that inner state of mind which would let her work undistracted by anything. Especially the man who leaned against the edge of the table, watching her every move.

She began. As she checked off the steps one by one on the parchment she kept beside the cauldron, the minutes stretched into hours. Moonstone mixture, aconite, stirring changes, temperature changes, a little of this and a little more of that, and heaven help her if the set of her mouth wasn't just right.

"We can't both be absent from dinner." The words broke the surface of her deep concentration.

"I know," she answered, and went on with her work as he left.

Not a word about how she was doing. _Pfffft_, she thought; she couldn't do it aloud—it might ruin the potion.

She was nearly finished when he came back. Almost time for the last ingredient: five drops of essence of silver. The drops had to be just the right size, applied in just the right pattern to the shimmering blue-green surface of the potion. And she had not done this step as often as most of the others. She filled the dropper with essence of silver and held her breath as she held it above the cauldron.

One...two...three..._wince_...four...five...

Whoosh!

Sarah was afraid for a moment that something had gone badly wrong and the potion was exploding. In all the times she had got to this point, the best she had got from the mixture was a feeble little sizzle. Now it was positively smoking.

"Hmmm," Snape said. He took a ladle from the rack and filled a sample bottle. He held it up to the light. Sarah could see that it was a little too cloudy, and the color was off.

"Damn!" she said, banging the table with her free hand. She set the essence of silver down as carefully as she could manage and pounded that fist on the table as well. All the moments when she had not been quite sure, when her actions had not been quite as precise as they could have been, crowded through her head in succession. "I'll never get this! And I've only got two months to come up with something else." She sighed and perched wearily on the table behind her, pressing a hopelessly unskilled hand to her face.

"You'll need to brew a new moonstone mixture. Either it wasn't quite right to begin with, or it's gone off. That's why the potion is cloudy."

"Why didn't you just tell me how worthless I was weeks ago?" Sarah groaned.

"Worthless?" He raised his eyebrows. "I assure you, if I believed that you were incapable of this, I would have put a stop to your 'worthless' efforts _months_ ago." He held up the potion again. "The color..."

"I faltered with the silver, I know," she said

He frowned at the interruption. "This is close enough that the examiners would be impressed, even if it wouldn't do more than make the transformed lycanthrope dazed and irritated, rather than properly clear-headed."

"Yes, well I don't sleep with the examiners, do I?" Sarah snapped; she stalked off into the bedroom.

_What's wrong with me?_ she wondered. _He said it was close. He's not yelling at me, telling me what a dunce I am, and yet here I am coming unhinged at him because it wasn't perfect_.

"I'm sorry," she said, turning into his embrace as he came up behind her. "I'm just...I'm sorry."

"It may be that you're hungry," he suggested gruffly. "It isn't good for you not to eat. Not now. Madam Pomfrey would have my head if she knew that I let you skip dinner. She's apt to have yours if she noticed that you weren't in the Great Hall tonight." He gestured at the table with his wand, and a plate of sandwiches appeared, along with some tea.

With some food tucked away, things did not look quite so dismal. Still... "You really think they'd give me top marks for that?" she asked Snape, who sat across from her. He had never gotten rid of this table for two, it occurred to her, although she almost never ate here.

"I didn't say that," he said warningly. "They might. But you can do better, and you know it."

"I don't know it."

"Very well, then. _I_ know it."

Sarah was too tired to feel encouraged. "Can I nap here, please? I can't face all those stairs."

"No. You don't have things set up in your room, and if you are caught out after curfew, the least that would happen is a detention."

"You could catch me," she pointed out. "Staying too late in my workroom."

"You really want to lose more points for your House?"

"No." She grimaced guiltily at the thought of how far she had set Gryffindor back already this year. Nor was she prepared to beg him to let her stay. She certainly could not tell him her thoughts of last night, about feeling safer sleeping with him. She didn't want to watch him sneer at such maudlin foolishness. With a sigh, she stood up.

He went out ahead of her—to check for anyone in the hallway, she thought—but at the tapestry into the office he met her with a bottle of the strengthening tonic she had made under his supervision a month ago. She leaned against the wall, pouring a sizeable dose into her mouth. She felt the effects almost immediately, but still she didn't move. Her exhaustion was more than physical, she realized, but what had suddenly become so draining on her spirit?

Far too many things, she found, as she began enumerating the possibilities. Being Umbridge's little sycophant was a big part of it; the more she had to hurt other people to please the woman, the worse it became. The strain of trying to perfect the potion. The anxiety of not knowing what was happening to Severus, what he was doing in those meetings with his dark master. Trying not to think about where he really stood. The troubling craving she was developing for expressions of affection. _He_ had begun that, she thought crossly, with those moments of comfort he gave her. Was it unreasonable to expect a degree of affection in marriage, even without genuine love?

_You're an idiot_, she told herself. _You're just pregnant and it's rotting your brain_.

She opened her eyes. Her Wolfsbane Potion still smoked in the cauldron. His, resting at an earlier point in the process, stood in its usual place in the corner. She wondered suddenly why he was always making it. It had to be brewed fresh each month—the effects of the full moon were such that, no matter how carefully it was stored, it lost its effectiveness.

"Are there any werewolves at school now?" she asked.

"No," Snape answered sharply, furrowing his brow at what must have seemed a terrible non sequitur. "Why should you think that?"

"Just, you brew it all the time," she added. "I wondered who it was for."

His frown lightened ever so slightly. "Dreggs and Pennyworth have customers who pay them handsomely for it. And it isn't something just anybody can brew, as you well know."

"They pay you for keeping them in stock?" It had never occurred to her, in spite of her career plans, that her talents might actually be worth something without being tied to the slavery of a job.

"That is the typical arrangement, yes," he sneered, as if the question were so obvious that it was condescension to answer it.

"What about Professor Lupin?" The rumor that the well-liked Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was a werewolf had spread like wildfire near the end of her fifth year, disrupting the confidence of many of her classmates in the preparation for their O.W.L.s.

"_What?_" Snape's face flushed.

"He could never afford it." Sarah remembered the man's tattered robes. "How could most lycanthropes?"

"Perhaps they have wealthy friends." He looked irritated, uncomfortable. "That is no concern of mine. Now, go to your room. Rest. Don't even think about working on the Wolfsbane Potion tomorrow evening. I shall be setting an essay in class. Finish it and go to bed early."

"Yes, Professor Snape," Sarah said, with mocking meekness.

He caught her against him, his expression shifting to a rather vicious smile. "It's about time you learned to obey me, Sarah."

She could feel the curve of her stomach against him as he pressed her close. She had been loosening her skirts for weeks now, but until this moment she had merely felt fat. The sudden consciousness that she really was _pregnant_ rushed through her like a tingle of magical sparks. On impulse, she pulled him into a kiss which, from the expression on his face as he finally broke away from it, had surprised him.

"Curfew," he whispered. "House points. I mean it. Voracious girl. I'm tired. So are you."

"I am tired," she admitted. "I'm going." She slipped out of his arms, although he still went with her to the classroom door. "All clear?" she asked, as he returned from checking the hallway.

"Yes. Goodnight, Sarah."

"Goodnight, Severus..." she grinned mischievously, "I mean, Professor Snape."

As he closed the door behind her, he wore the roguish sneer that he reserved just for her.

* * *

Sarah did more or less as she had been told on Monday. After all that she had read in preparing for her project, Potions had become a breeze. Her most recent N.E.W.T. Herbology task—growing Vampiric Violets—was progressing nicely, and she had already filled out her work journal on them for the day. She caught up on her Astronomy reading during the evening, and was puttering through her Potions essay, more than a little bored and wishing that Angelina was there to chat with, when she felt a sudden, nasty buzzing against her arm. 

For no especially good reason, she had pinned her silver 'I' to the left inner arm seam of her outer robes, where her shirt sleeve would protect her from it, but it would still be pressed close enough to her arm for her to notice it if it did something. Ok, she'd had a reason. But the fact that it wasn't a very good one was made entirely apparent by the chill of dread that ran through her at the summons.

It was a little after eight. The meeting couldn't last long without encroaching on curfew, although she supposed Umbridge could excuse them for being late. But what could be so important that...

_Marietta Edgecombe_. Sarah had hardly thought of her the rest of the weekend. With a guilty start, she realized that _Angelina was gone_. So were Katie and Alicia. Was Potter?

He wasn't in the common room, as she hurried through on her way to the Dark Arts professor's office. What could she do? If she didn't respond to Umbridge's summons, she would have a lot of explaining to do. And unless she knew what the I.S. was being called upon to do, she could hardly give a sensible warning to anyone.

Sarah arrived later than everyone else; the other common rooms were all closer. Someone she didn't know was weeping in the corner, with her hands over her face. Presumably Marietta Edgecombe.

"—on the seventh floor." Umbridge was already giving instructions, and gave Sarah a surprised nod (apparently having failed to realize that she was missing) when she came in. "We will catch them in the very act. Nip the problem at its source. Strike without warning." The woman was so outrageously pleased that she could hardly speak clearly for the stretching of her mouth by her smile.

"Professor?" Draco Malfoy spoke up. "What about the house-elves?"

"What about them?" Umbridge said, her mouth slackening slightly.

"That good-for-nothing creature that Potter tricked my father into freeing is here at Hogwarts. They know everything." The boy's eyes flicked around the room, looking suspiciously into the corners.

"Well, that can be dealt with." She spoke the words to summon a house-elf. The one who appeared was clad in a purple tea towel. "House-elf," Umbridge ordered imperiously, "none of your kind is to speak to Harry Potter tonight, or to warn him or his friends in any other way about anything you may have heard in this office. That is a strict command from the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," the creature whimpered, twisting its hands together. "I is understanding. I be telling the others right away." He disappeared.

"There. Now, let us hurry!"

As the I.S. sprang into action, heading for the door, Umbridge went to the crying girl. "You just stay here, dear. I'll find a way to deal with this little problem. Ah, Sandra," she said, noticing Sarah had hung back. "Please do what you can for Miss Edgecombe."

Sarah found herself alone in Umbridge's office with the sniffling Ravenclaw.

The seventh floor...that door...Angelina's magic room... That _must_ be where they met. And she had no means of getting there to warn them. If only...

Her ring? Her room was close enough to the seventh floor that if she hurried fast enough... Of course, that required that she didn't care who might see her appearing in her room...or coming down the stairs a second time without having gone up them. Still, she was poised to do just that when she noticed that Marietta had stopped wailing and was looking at her hopefully.

"It's so _awful_," the girl whispered.

It was. Marietta's pale, tear-stained face had broken out in livid pimples that spelled out the word 'SNEAK' across her face. At least Potter and his friends had found a very effective way to reveal any potential traitors in their midst.

"Why did you tell on them?" Sarah asked sharply, knowing that it hardly went with her I.S. persona, but not caring.

Marietta began crying again. "M...m...m...my...m...m...mother...m...m...made...m...me!"

A little sympathy for the girl trickled into Sarah's soul. She could hardly abandon her in this state. And by now it must be too late to even try to get to the seventh floor in time. "All right, I'll try to get rid of this," she said, hoping to sound reassuring. Marietta must be in her sixth year at least, but she looked much younger with her face screwed up trying not to cry. "Look, I know a couple of charms for acne, but I'm better with potions. Maybe if we go down to Professor Snape's offi—"

"Oh, NO!" Marietta wailed, looking horrified. "He'll...he'll...he'll say s...s...s...something _horrible_ to me if he s...s...sees me like _this_."

Sarah couldn't argue with that. Indeed, she wasn't overeager to hear what Snape would say to _her_. Whether it was a gloat about Potter or an accusation of mismanaging her spying, it wasn't something she wanted to listen to, not when she was doing quite well enough at recriminating herself.

"All right," Sarah said. "Let me try the charms."

* * *

It seemed to take forever before anyone returned. The charms had not helped. Whoever had cast this spell had known what they were doing. The other members of the Inquisitorial Squad trickled into Umbridge's office, mostly looking disgruntled. 

"Flitwick caught us bringing Lovegood down here and made us let her go," Montague complained. "I wish Umbridge'd hurry up about making our powers public."

"I got Potter, at least," Malfoy gloated, as he came into the room. "Umbridge has taken him up to Dumbledore's office."

"Isn't he likely to let Potter off?" Sarah asked, trying to sound more concerned than hopeful.

"Oh, you weren't here when the meeting started," Parkinson put in. "She's got _Fudge_ up there. _Minister_ Fudge."

"Maybe he won't just get expelled," Malfoy crowed. "Maybe he'll get sent to Azkaban! Old Dumbly won't be able to do a thing!"

Sarah tried to at least smile when the others broke into guffaws. Bad. Oh, this was bad. And it was all her fault. If only she had tried harder to...to what? to get to Marietta? to warn Potter herself? to convince Severus to... Sarah felt tears welling in her eyes, and she forced a laugh to cover them up.

"They did a number on _you_," one of the Slytherins commented, taking in Marietta's persistent skin condition. Having failed to bring down any other prey, several members of the I.S. now turned their venom on the unfortunate Ravenclaw girl. Sarah noticed that Morgaine Lukas looked very unhappy, although she was doing nothing to stop the teasing.

"Oh, let her alone," Sarah spoke up, disgusted at herself for having done so very little to prevent any of this. "It could be any one of you."

Umbridge came in before it got any worse. "Well done," she said, apparently unconcerned by the fact that there were no other prisoners waiting for her. "You may go to your dormitories now. Keep your pins close at hand. I feel confident that you will soon be able to wear them openly. Come with me, dear," Umbridge added to Marietta. She frowned at Sarah. "You weren't able to do anything for her?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," Sarah ducked her head. _Sorrier than you know_. "It's a very difficult jinx to break, and I wasn't able to get at my Potions supplies."

"Oh, nevermind," Umbridge dismissed her. "I'll do it myself."

Leaving Marietta to the horrible woman's tender mercies, Sarah trudged up the stairs.

She didn't want to go back to her room. Not to face the other girls, who must have had very narrow escapes. How could she face anyone? She might as well have 'SNEAK' spelled out across her own face.

She had surprisingly little impulse to seek out her usual solace. If Snape had passed along _all_ the information he should have, maybe none of this would have happened. And if he were to so much as _smile_ at the thought of Potter being expelled, she was likely to hex him.

The Astronomy Tower? Not that she was going to throw herself off. But no, it was getting warmer all the time; now it was April, and she was still thinking of that frigid night in January, wanting to punish herself with the cold. Could she roam the hallways until someone caught her? Filch maybe; that would surely result in some hideous detention.

Unfortunately, no one seemed very interested in catching any other misbehaving students tonight. Finally, Sarah made her way back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was dimmed for the night. Everyone in her room was asleep...or so she thought.

"Sarah?" she heard an anxious voice from Angelina's bed. "Where've you been?"

"I just couldn't sleep," Sarah said quietly. _I let you all be betrayed_.

"Me either," Angelina said. "What a horrible night."

If the other girl expected this statement to prompt a question, she was going to be disappointed.

"Yeah, it was," Sarah answered. Not even bothering to change, she kicked off her shoes, crawled into her bed and closed the curtains. When Angelina made no further attempts at conversation, Sarah cast the silencing spell and wept miserably enough to put Marietta to shame.

What would happen now? Had she just lost the whole war for Dumbledore's side, if The-Boy-Who-Lived went to Azkaban? How could Snape be happy about that? Maybe she ought to have listened to him to begin with, about the spying. But...no, that would only mean that she wouldn't have known about tonight's events. She would have had no chance at all to have stopped them.

Did he want to see Potter trip so badly that he didn't care about the end result? No...no...if that were true, he would have let her betray Potter to Umbridge herself. Maybe she should have—then at least she would be getting some benefit from her torment of conscience. Their own little shop, with Severian running around the counter. Severus shouting at the boy to behave himself. She tried to make him pick up the child and lift him up into the air, as her father had done with her when she was small. But her imagination wasn't strong enough for that. And the shop...that wasn't him either. Her child's father was the enigmatic Potions master of Hogwarts, who secretly spied for both sides and spent kind words as stingily as if they were Galleons. And it was impossible to see him as anyone else. He could never be the father she would have wanted for her son. It was not in him.

_Why_ _didn't he leave us alone?_ she agonized. The boy Severian turned around, as imagination gave way to dreams. It wasn't Severian; it was Harry Potter. And Severus was glaring at both her and the boy from the other side of the counter.

* * *

**A/N:** I can't think of much to say, for a change. Up next, dealing with the aftermath. And just so you know, there's only two more _-insert anti-depressant of your choice-_ chapters coming up here (thanks to that annoying Dolores Umbridge and that miserable, prying Harry Potter). Things will start to get happier when we get to the Easter holiday, I promise. Which isn't to say there won't be other problems further down the road (of which it is my sad duty to inform you). But there's going to be a reprieve for a while. Just so you know. 


	24. Ch 23: Bravi, Bravi, Bravissimi

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** _Anti-litigatio! _Well, it can't hurt. :)

**A/N:** There may have been some confusion when I said 'two more chapters.' I didn't mean there are only two more chapters in the story (indeed, we are only about ½ to 2/3 of the way through the story). I meant two more _stressful, angst-ridden_ chapters. Then our hero and heroine will get a break for a while, and believe me, they're going to need one.

Thank you again to all my reviewers:cecelle, lucidity, zhaneraal, and laxgoalie210 (assuming you've gotten this far). I really appreciate you all for reading and for giving feedback. That's the only reward that fan fiction writers get—a little fleeting fame. But, ah, the praise lives in the memory forever. :)

There's an extremely subtle AR joke in the scene with Draco (who somehow manages to keep sneaking into these chapters, drat that boy), if you like looking for those kinds of things.

* * *

**Chapter 23: Bravi, Bravi, Bravissimi...**

A night's sleep, as unrefreshing as it was, still managed to blunt Sarah's unease and unhappiness to the point where it did not torment her upon waking. Perhaps she was still too tired to really face anything. Whatever the reason for her reprieve, it did not last long. As she went down to the Great Hall, she discovered that the results of last night's disaster were even worse than she could possibly have imagined.

Umbridge had gotten her fondest wish. According to 'Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight'—the notices of which were plastered all over the walls—the High Inquisitor was now Headmistress of Hogwarts.

The change was, predictably, the only topic of discussion among the students. Rumors were spreading from mouth to mouth in the hallways: Dumbledore had fled the school when the Minister attempted to arrest him. No one seemed very concerned about what the charges had been. But the tales of his escape exploits were fast becoming the stuff of legend.

Harry Potter had been there to see it, the rumors said, as well as Marietta Edgecombe, who was reportedly now under Madam Pomfrey's care for an unspecified injury. But as Sarah came into the Great Hall, she was surprised to see Potter holding court at the Gryffindor table. He had—somehow—not been expelled.

Whatever the explanation for that mystery, the reality of Dumbledore's displacement was undeniable. Dolores Umbridge sat in the headmaster's chair at the staff table. Professor McGonagall, who usually sat next, was absent. Everyone on the other side had moved down, taking advantage of Umbridge's former (and now empty) place, so that she had a wide expanse of table to herself. Snape, down on the end, sat glowering over his breakfast. But then, he usually glowered over breakfast. The rest of the teachers wore guarded expressions of dismay.

The owl post brought more bad news:  
_Congratulations on a job well done last night! The Inquisitorial Squad is now official. You may wear your badges openly. They have been fully activated, and you may now use them to award or remove House points. I am sure you will use this power wisely to help me restore order to the school.  
_(signed) _Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts_

Sarah looked up at the staff table again, but Umbridge wasn't paying attention to the students. She had called Snape over to speak with her. When Sarah saw him nodding agreeably in response, she lost her appetite altogether. She left the rest of her breakfast unfinished and headed for her workroom.

* * *

Wherever Sarah went for the rest of the day, she saw I.S. members abusing their new badges. They did not go entirely unpunished. As she was on her way upstairs during the morning break, Sarah happened to see Fred and George Weasley push Montague into the Vanishing Cabinet near the History of Magic classroom. They grinned at her. 

"He'll show up again..."

"...sometime."

"Too bad it wasn't a Vanishing _Bin_," Sarah commented.

"Now there's an idea..."

"Excellent, Sarah, thank you!" The two went on their way, deep in conversation.

Sarah was not so enthusiastic in her own destination. The thought of Umbridge sitting behind Dumbledore's desk...the thought of knowing that it was her fault...was nauseating. But when she reached the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the headmaster's office, she saw a small notice hanging from the gargoyle's nose: _This area is now off-limits. The new headmistress's office is located in the south corridor_. A small diagram indicated it had replaced the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office. Convenient, that.

After retracing her steps, Sarah knocked hesitantly on Umbridge's door. She was admitted into to the same old room, except that Umbridge's desk now sported a large sign declaring its occupant to be the HEADMISTRESS, in gold letters.

"I really am very busy," Umbridge said. "What is it?"

Sarah had fantasized about laying her silver 'I' on the desk. About saying, _I'm sorry, I can't help you any longer_. About saying, _Sod off, you bitch_. But none of those things were an option.

"I just wanted to let you know that I've been thinking, and I don't think I'd better wear my badge openly."

"Whyever not?"

"Well, I think I would be more effective within Gryffindor, you know, if my true loyalties," Sarah almost choked over the words, "aren't known."

"Ah, yes. I quite see your point. Very well, dear. That will do." If Sarah had ever heard a dismissal, that was one, and she made a grateful retreat.

_Sure_, she accused herself, _cover up your guilt. Keep on feeding the toad her diet of little Gryffindor flies. Even if that's still the only thing you can do if you want to survive unscathed_.

Not unscathed. No, not unscathed.

'_I can imagine how very painful it must be to live, Julia, to even want to live, knowing the way you have betrayed...'_

_NO! _Shut it off. Shut it all off. It wasn't the same. It doesn't apply. It means nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Sarah made her way up to Gryffindor Tower. All the way, she had to fight the impulse to make it the Astronomy Tower instead.

* * *

She almost didn't go to Snape's rooms that night. Even the impromptu (and still ongoing) fireworks display—engineered, she would have bet her last Galleon, if she had one, by the Weasley twins—did not do much for her mood. She had pondered it all day, wondering if she could stop herself from screaming at him, from hexing him, from collapsing in tears in front of him. After dinner, she headed downstairs, meaning to work on her moonstone mixture. But as she got closer to her workroom, she couldn't help thinking about all the lovely toxins she had access to in her store cupboard. That would not do. 

Besides, she decided, turning back toward his office, she needed to know more about what had happened last night than student rumors could tell her. In his office, as a student, she would be less tempted to fly out at him, knowing that someone else could happen along anytime.

"Come in," Snape said. When she opened the door, he seemed surprised. "What it is, Miss Darkglass?"

She stepped in and shut the door.

"Are you all right?" he asked, a note of genuine concern leaking into his voice. "Were you injured last night?"

"No, I wasn't part of the chase scene. I was told off to babysit Edgecombe and her face. Have you seen her?" Sarah sat down. She let her head fall into her arms on the edge of the desk.

"Yes. Madam Pomfrey had me up there this afternoon. She's running out of ideas to try."

"Can you make something for her?"

"I'm not sure. The jinx may only respond to another spell, not to a potion," he said. His lip curled slightly. "Why should you care about a few more pimples on a smarmy little Ravenclaw traitor's face?"

"Because it's _my fault_," Sarah said, some of the grief at her guilt breaking through. "If I had been able to warn her that Umbridge was after her... If _you_ had told Professor Dumbledore what was going on, _none_ of this would have happened!" She kept her voice down, but the invective spilled out all the same.

"What makes you believe that I _didn't_ tell Professor Dumbledore what was going on?" he snapped. "What _had_ I to tell him that would have changed anything? Did you know about this plot to capture Potter last night?"

"No," she admitted. "Not until it was already happening. But if he had been warned before that there was some hazard..."

"You seriously believe," Snape hissed, interrupting, "that the arrogant Mr. Potter would have listened to _any_ suggestions that his clever little scheme was about to go awry? And since Professor Dumbledore saw fit to take all the consequences upon himself, the boy has managed to scrape through with yet another lesson left unlearned."

"It might have made a difference," she argued. Her shoulders sagged. "I still feel guilty for not doing _something_."

"Well, don't. It would have made no difference. More to the point, it makes no difference _now_." He held her eyes, and it was difficult not to want to believe him, regardless of what her conscience said. As if he saw the lingering weakness, he added, "You've chosen a path where such things _will_ happen, Sarah. So, stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Sarah winced and looked away. She asked, more quietly, "What happened to Professor Dumbledore?"

"A 'working exile' was how it was described to me."

"He didn't get taken to Azkaban?"

"No, of course not." Snape frowned.

"I just...I wasn't sure if what everyone has been saying is just wishful thinking."

"If you mean, did Professor Dumbledore hex Minister Fudge into St. Mungo's, no. But he did escape without them laying a finger on him, and he is still, as they say, very much 'at large.'"

"How bad is this?" Her voice was the thinnest of whispers.

He sat far back in his chair and sighed. "It could be worse. Of course, I must be seen to be helping our new headmistress, since Dumbledore's continued absence is to the Dark Lord's advantage—or so he may suppose, even though it means I can no longer report directly on Dumbledore's actions." He actually looked somewhat relieved that that was the case. "Besides, Umbridge has given me a little taste of what I can expect if I don't support her." He pushed a folded letter across the desk to her.

_Professor Snape_, (it read)  
_In spite of your reassurances, I was unable to extract any useful information from Harry Potter. Are you quite sure you gave me the correct potion? This failure suggests to me that your skills may not be quite as spectacular as I have been led to believe. You are now to consider yourself on probation. I hope that I can expect better things from you in the future. I would regret having to find a new Potions master_.  
(signed) _Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts_

"Potion?" Sarah asked.

"She tried to question Potter with Veritaserum this morning. Or what she thought was Veritaserum. Speaking of which..." He stood and opened the hidden compartment, behind the store cupboard, where he kept completed potions. He drew out a smallish, plain, wooden box, with a complicated lock on the lid. After closing the compartment, he brought the box to the table. "I think this would be safest in your trunk. In the _bottom_ of your trunk."

She looked at him questioningly.

"My Veritaserum stores. Under no circumstances must Dolores Umbridge be allowed to question Potter under Veritaserum. If she should order me to supply another bottle, or attempt to help herself to one, I want these hidden someplace she would never think to look for them."

Sarah fingered the seam on the box. It was a measure of how terrible the situation was that she wasn't even tempted to say anything amusing about her own potential uses for the contents.

The door sprang open behind her. Sarah's heart almost stopped before she managed to turn around, fully expecting to see Umbridge bursting in with the I.S. The reality was not much better. It was Draco Malfoy.

"Why do _you_ always turn up?" he sneered at Sarah, stopping short when he saw her.

"I was wondering the same thing about you," Sarah riposted. In spite of her scare—or maybe because of it—she wanted to make the boy pay...for a great many things. "It reminds me of the little worms you find when the spade gets upended."

"Why aren't you wearing your badge? Afraid the ickle Gryffindors won't like you anymore?"

"That is enough!" Snape came out from behind the desk to stand in front of it, neatly occluding Malfoy's view of the box on his desktop. "What is the meaning of this, Draco? I do not recall inviting you here to insult one of my N.E.W.T. students." His voice was icier than she had ever heard him use with a Slytherin.

"I'm sorry, sir," Malfoy said, attempting to appear appropriately sheepish. On his narrow, aristocratic face, it merely looked as if he had bitten into something he hadn't planned on eating. "I just thought she ought to have her badge on, sir."

"What are you talking about, Draco?" His puzzled expression was entirely convincing.

"She's on the Inquisitorial Squad, sir," the boy responded, shooting a glare at her. "A mistake if you ask me, sir." Sarah winced inwardly at his excessive attempt to pacify Snape with honorfics.

"Why is that?" Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Well, sir, it's not as if she can be _trusted_."

"Draco," he asked coldly, "do you know who Miss Darkglass's father was?"

The boy's eyes widened a little; apparently he hadn't thought of that until he was reminded of her family name.

"But...sir...she got sorted into _Gryffindor!_"

"Where, as I believe our new headmistress has already realized, she is able gather information no one else can. Now, may I assist you in some way?"

Malfoy blinked, as if suddenly remembering the real reason he was there. "It's one of those blasted fireworks, sir. Someone drove it down into our common room. It's causing an awful mess now. All the furniture is knocked over, and the statue of Sir George already had a big scorch mark down one side when I left." The boy looked as much excited as distressed. Sarah, reading between the lines, guessed that it had been a Slytherin who brought it down: a little fun gone wrong. If Malfoy had truly considered it an emergency, she doubted he would have taken the time to insult her.

"I see," Snape said smoothly, probably discerning the same thing. "Well, then. Miss Darkglass, if you intend to keep working on your Potions project this evening, perhaps you can return later. Otherwise, your question will have to wait until tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. I'll try back later."

"Come along, Draco." Snape swept the boy out ahead of him, leaving Sarah alone in the office.

She dived for the box, cursing at Malfoy under her breath. A few quick taps, a few words, and the doorway behind the tapestry was revealed. She ducked through, making her way back into the bedroom.

_Under the bed?_ She knelt down to twitch up the dust ruffle, and found something she did not expect. Hesitantly, she pulled it out into the light.

It was a broad stone bowl, with runes and symbols carved around its edge. She had studied Ancient Runes up through O.W.L. level, but she couldn't make much of these. One, at least, had to do with memory, another with containment. She regretted, for the first time, only receiving an "Acceptable" on that O.W.L. Whatever it was, it had not been there during the Christmas break. It almost certainly had something to do with whatever Snape was doing to remove her from his mind before Potter's lessons, and he would probably come unhinged if he discovered her tampering with it. She carefully slid the bowl back into precisely its previous location and began looking for another hiding place.

She wanted it convenient to the bed, so she could retrieve it quickly. She didn't dare Portkey it up to her room now—chances were good that someone was in there, and she hadn't made the necessary preparations. As she stared around at the spare bed frame, a new idea occurred to her. She flicked back the covers, lodged the box carefully between the pillows, and made up the bed again. Once she did get back to her room, it would only take a few quick twists of her ring to carry the Veritaserum away to safety, with no one the wiser. Later tonight, when everyone was sleeping, she could bury the box at the bottom of her trunk.

She was approaching the tapestry, after giving each of the potions in the workroom a quick look in passing, when she heard another knock on the office door. She froze. The door creaked.

"Severus?" asked a querulous voice. It was Professor McGonagall.

Sarah peeked out at the edge of the tapestry, hoping against hope that her Head of House hadn't dragged some luckless Slytherin down to atone for some misadventure. But the woman was alone. She was looking around the office hesitantly.

"Professor McGonagall?" Sarah whispered, twitching the tapestry partway aside. "Is the door closed?"

The older woman went red to the roots of her hair. "Well, yes." She only seemed slightly relieved when Sarah emerged from hiding fully clothed. Dubiously, she asked, "Where is Professor Snape?"

"He had to go deal with a little fireworks problem in the Slytherin common room."

The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched, then she schooled her expression to sternness. "What are you doing here at this time of the evening? Anyone could come in and see you."

Sarah decided not to say anything about Malfoy. "I am working on a difficult N.E.W.T. project," she said, a bit loftily. "I _do_ have the right to consult with my teacher from time to time."

"Don't you get high-handed with me, young lady!" McGonagall's mouth was a thin line; Sarah had never heard her speak that way to a student. "Of all the hazards we've been under, the exposure of your situation is the one I've feared most. That, apparently, was a mistake. But must you risk making things worse than they already are? I warned you about carelessness, and you seem have ignored me." The woman sounded very close to tears, and she sank down in a chair, looking exceedingly old.

Maybe it was compassion, maybe it was just her guilt bubbling out, but Sarah found herself on her knees in front of her Head of House. "I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall. I didn't mean to sound snippy. And we _have_ been careful."

"I wish I could feel sure of that."

"I don't want to get caught anymore than you want me to. Nor does Severus. And he has more to lose than either of us."

"I just didn't...expect events of late."

_And I could have warned you_... Sarah squashed the thought. Snape was right—it made no difference now. At least no helpful one.

"Is Professor Dumbledore all right?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Don't be concerned about that. It's not him I fear for so much. In a way, he's safer out of Hogwarts. The question is, how safe are we here without him?"

Sarah did not know what to say. She clenched the woman's thin hands, trying to convey some of her own young strength (however limited it had become) to McGonagall. After a time, McGonagall stirred. "This is hardly a fit scene for curious eyes, is it? You and I in Severus's empty office."

"Well, if anyone else comes looking for him, you've come to complain on my behalf about his ruthless requirements for my project. I'm so exhausted from potion-brewing that I have to sleep twelve hours a day."

McGonagall blinked, seeming not to sense that it had been half a joke. "Really? It's that apprenticeship, isn't it? If he's pushing you too hard..."

"He takes very good care of me," Sarah broke in. It felt very strange to be defending his behavior to anyone but herself. "He's no more demanding than you were in Transfiguration. You were just...nicer about it." Sarah forced herself to grin.

The woman's eyes studied her, seeing more, Sarah feared, than she would ever have revealed willingly. More, maybe, than there was to reveal, products of an overweary imagination. "I wish there had been another way," McGonagall said, reaching out a hand unexpectedly to push a lock of Sarah's hair back from her eyes. "When I saw how frightened you were, my courage nearly failed me. I was sure I was condemning you to a terrible fate."

"It didn't show," Sarah said, unable to keep a touch of bitterness out of her voice.

"Is it so very bad?" McGonagall's study of her became even more earnest. "Albus never meant your unhappiness."

"I'm not unhappy. Not exactly. Not right now." She shook her head. Then everything she feared rose up into her throat, and her words dissolved into a sob. "I just don't know what will become of me." She laid her head on McGonagall's lap, the tears flowing.

"Oh dear," McGonagall said, squeezing the hand she still held. "I wish I knew..."

The door opened again.

"What's the matter here?" Snape asked, taking in the scene with a frown. "What's happened, Minerva?"

The moment he appeared, Sarah had lifted her head, swallowing her sobs, trying to compose herself. She stood up and wiped her face with the back of her hand, the sleeve of her robe.

"Just a little feminine emancipation of emotions," McGonagall said. "Probably nothing you would understand."

Snape's brow furrowed as he looked from one to the other and back. There was a hint of alarm in his eyes, as if he were afraid of what they might have said to each other in his absence. "Have you come here merely to insult me, Minerva, or do you have something significant to say?"

McGonagall rose to her feet, setting her shoulders firmly. "I have a message for you," she said cryptically. She reached in the deepest pocket of her robes and pulled out a slip of folded parchment. "Everything is going as well as can be expected, so far. But he thought this was important. I took it down word for word."

Snape took the parchment and unfolded it. He scanned whatever brief message it held, and his expression darkened.

"He may be right," McGonagall remarked quietly.

"I'll think about it," Snape growled.

"I'll make sure he knows you're _considering_ his request," McGonagall said, moving to excuse herself from the office. "After all the risk that was taken to send it."

"Very well, damn it." He closed his fist around the parchment. "Tell him: very well."

If McGonagall looked a trifle smug, her obvious weariness covered it well.

"Goodnight, Sarah. Severus," she said, and departed, closing the door behind her.

They stood in silence for a moment, as if they were part of some tableau that had ceased to move when the third player left.

"If I ask you what that was about, will you tell me?" Sarah asked, feeling weary herself. Too weary and too unbalanced by the interrupted relief of her feelings to play games.

He handed her the crumpled note.

She smoothed it across her palm. It was very short, only a single sentence, in McGonagall's fine handwriting. Curious, how such a simple instruction could occasion so much tension:

_Take her home for the Easter holidays._

"He can't mean Aunt Portia's?" Sarah asked. An idea full of dread swept over her. "Not the Notts'?"

"No," Severus said. "Not your home."

"Not that I _have_ one," Sarah said. Then, as she saw what he was saying, she blinked at a notion that seemed the oddest one of all. It was almost impossible to imagine him living anywhere except at Hogwarts. "Where's home when you're not here?"

"I keep a flat," he said, his voice strangely hollow.

"A flat?" she echoed. "Where?"

He looked at her with hard eyes. "In Knockturn Alley."

* * *

**A/N:** Every time that I had previously read the last scene in Umbridge's office, when she calls Snape up to give her some more Veritaserum, I had thought that her statement, "You are on probation!" meant 'How dare you act this way when you're already on probation!' and I wrote this scene accordingly—after all, it made sense to me that she would have blamed Snape, not herself, for her earlier failure to extract information from Harry. It was only the last time I went over this passage that it occurred me that she might have meant 'You are, from this moment forward, on probation!' Oh well, I still think it works. I like the idea of Snape having been secretly on probation (no point in Umbridge haunting his classes, since he's a good teacher—_yes_, he _is_—and she's got to be running very low on time resources by that point). I also thought that it didn't make sense that Snape would deny having any more Veritaserum unless he was quite sure that Umbridge wouldn't find any if she went looking for it. (And if you believe that he would actually permit himself to run out of Veritaserum that way, I happen have a bridge for sale...) 


	25. Ch 24: Little Prying Pandora

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** You wouldn't sue me on my _birthday_, would you?

**A/N:** Reviewers, you are great. Lady Whitehart, Owlbait, littledarkone, lucidity and cecelle are all readers who have made my day by chiming in on the last chapter. Actually, littledarkone, I review people in both places, too! A little extra ego-stroking is not a bad thing. :)

Hobbitlike, I'm going to give you all a birthday present. This is the chapter that many you have been waiting for. I hope it does not disappoint.

* * *

**Chapter 24: Little Prying Pandora**

Having the box of Veritaserum vials in the bottom of her trunk, as small a thing as that was, made Sarah feel immeasurably better. It was as if she had achieved at least one victory over Umbridge. Although a portion of guilt continued to gnaw at her, it only took the thought of those vials for her hold her head up a little higher.

Even the new moonstone mixture was going better. She spent all her free time on Wednesday afternoon on it. All through dinner she went over the steps in her mind—both the ones she had completed...yes, she had done very well...and the ones she had yet to do.

"Pssst, Darkglass." A voice at her ear broke her concentration as she was hurrying out of the Great Hall.

She turned to see a narrow face topped by white-blond hair. Malfoy.

"What do _you_ want?" she snapped.

The boy looked down his nose at her. "Montague's come up missing. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Not a thing," Sarah lied.

"Well, everyone in the Inquisitorial Squad is supposed to go looking for him."

"Fine," she snapped, although she had no intention of wasting her time on such a worthless activity. The more she was seen with members of the I.S., the more likely it was she would be identified as one, badge or no. It wasn't as if Umbridge would notice her absence, based on how she had acted the other night. If she could just shake Malfoy... "I'll check..." Sarah broke off as she felt a sudden buzzing against her arm. At the same moment, Malfoy raised his hand to his badge.

"Damn," she murmured to herself. Not only was her work time being encroached upon, but now she was going to have spend at least a half hour snuggling up to the toad. And she had no chance of testing her new theory about Umbridge, not with Malfoy apparently determined to stick to her side all the way upstairs.

As they climbed the first flight, the boy commented, "You seem awfully friendly with Professor Snape."

Sarah's stomach instantly began to churn, and she felt a cold sweat break out on her scalp.

"So do you," she returned. "Bursting into his office without even knocking."

"I have the right to talk to him anytime I like," Malfoy said haughtily. "He owes my family. Anyway, he likes me."

"Are you implying that he's your _pet?_ Or would that be the other way around?" Sarah let her voice drop very low. "Do you like being buggered, little boy?"

Malfoy's face went nearly purple. Gods, she hoped it wasn't _true_. The thought made her feel quite ill.

"You take that back!" he shouted. His wand was out in an instant, but if he thought he had gotten on the jump on her, he was disabused by the tip of her own wand nearly touching his.

"You want to bet that your father taught you better curses than mine taught me?" she asked; her whisper was even quieter and more deadly than before. A few people had stopped, seeing wands drawn, and now a small crowd was gathering to watch the show. "All right, Malfoy," she said, "I take it back. After all, only two people know the truth, hm?"

Malfoy showed his teeth; they were small and white, as if he had never lost his baby set. "Not much of an apology, Darkglass. But," he lowered his wand, "I have better things to do. The headmistress is waiting."

She let him go on ahead, while the crowd dispersed in whispers. It wasn't worth it to hex him in the back. Anyway, she was fairly sure that he was anticipating just such an attack. He walked stiffly, as if waiting for the sound of a spell going off. _A pregnant woman has no business dueling_, she reminded herself.

Dolores Umbridge was not in her office; Morgaine Lukas was.

"They found Montague," she said, "up in the fourth floor girl's bathroom. Umbridge is there. She wants everyone to come up and help."

Groaning as she faced more stairs, Sarah debated not showing up. Probably a bad idea, with Malfoy more than eager to say something about her skiving off. Dang it, she wanted to get back to her lab.

There was quite the crowd gathered around the entrance to the bathroom. From inside, a male voice was howling almost like an animal. Umbridge's voice was raised in obvious impatience. Gritting her teeth, Sarah pushed through the crowd.

Most of the I.S. were gathered around a stall toward the back, from whence the howls were emerging. The floor was flooded, and chunks of porcelain were scattered about. Umbridge backed out of the stall, her robes rather the worse for whatever she had been attempting to do, and looked around.

"I haven't time for this nonsense. Someone get Professor Snape. Montague is his student, after all."

Sarah looked at Malfoy, as if daring him to volunteer after their little altercation. He sneered at her. "I'll go, Headmistress."

"Well," Umbridge said, as he took off. "I don't need all of you here. We're getting behind with the post. I want twenty minutes from each of you, right now."

* * *

It was a long twenty minutes. Usually post-inspecting time was broken up by smart-arse comments (from the Slytherins) about what they were reading. Tonight, everyone seemed more interested in getting through the time and having done with it. Several people had been splattered when the toilet was blown to bits, and all of their shoes had gotten damp; the post room, a smallish chamber just down from Umbridge's office, was filled with a musty odor until Parkinson got irritated and cast an air-freshening spell. 

Tramping down to the dungeons afterward, frustrated and certain that she would have difficulty getting back into the right frame of mind to complete the moonstone mixture, Sarah was so distracted that she almost didn't see Harry Potter come charging up the dungeon stairs. She only had time to register that his eyes were almost popping from his head before he was past her and gone, and before she had time to ponder the meaning of his expression, there was a loud thump from the Potions classroom.

Ignoring the tiny warning voice that arose from her memories of the night that the Divination mistress was sacked, Sarah hurried down into the classroom, wondering if (against all probability) Potter had managed to do something terrible to Snape. _Guilty...the boy had looked guilty...and scared_.

Snape was standing next to an overturned table in the classroom, his eyes blazing, his face deathly pale.

"Get out of here!" he shouted, although he hardly seemed to see her. As prepared as she was for his lack of recognition, it was still painful. And with such a wild expression on his face, she was truly afraid of him. But she was also afraid _for_ him. He did not look well.

"Are you all right, Professor Snape?" Sarah asked, as firmly and calmly as she could manage, bracing herself to dodge if he reacted badly.

"I said get out!" He began advancing on her, his threateningly outstretched arm pointing sharply to the door.

She had to try one more thing before she retreated. "Sir, it's _Sarah_."

Whether it was because the name connected with something still in his mind, or because he was so stunned that a student would actually dare to continue talking back to him when he was this obviously outraged, he paused, blinking rapidly. At least he finally seemed to be seeing her. Although that did even stranger things to his expression.

"You...aren't supposed to be here." His eyes glazed over.

"I'm sorry. Potter ran out and then I heard a loud noise in here. I was worried."

"Potter!" he spat. "That damned prying little...!"

"What did he do? Should I get someone? Madam Pomfrey? Professor McGonagall?" Sarah wondered if he had gone quite mad.

He shut his eyes, took a deep breath. "No! There is nothing the matter with me now that your absence would not cure." Perhaps because he was clearly not himself, the comment didn't sting as much as it should. "You are...disorienting."

"Maybe we'd better go into your office," Sarah suggested. Although goodness knew, no one would hear her shouting for help in there if he suddenly went completely off the deep end.

"_I_ will go to my office. _You_ will go back to your dormitory."

"Not until I know you're all right," Sarah said firmly.

"Are you allowed to behave like this?" He furrowed his brow. His voice was full of uncertainty, which was, for him, very odd. "How the devil did I end up married to you?"

Sarah glanced anxiously at the open door. She had to get him into his office before someone overheard this conversation. "I'm pretty sure it was your idea. I really think, sir, that it would be better if you go and do whatever it is you need to do to reverse the memory spell." She slipped over to the outer door and shut it, then began walking slowly and carefully toward his office, beckoning to him. It seemed unwise to startle him with any sudden moves. He watched her, puzzled and wary.

There were splinters of glass everywhere inside the office door, as well as dead...were they cockroaches?

"Excuse me," he snapped, striding up rapidly behind her, as if he wasn't about to allow her to enter the office first. She stepped out of the way, and he stomped inside, crushing dried bugs and scraping glass into the stone under his boots with an ear-grating sound.

"_Evanseco!_" Sarah pointed her wand at the floor. The evidence—of whatever—vanished.

"I did not ask you to do that!"

"You're welcome. Now will you be all right? I know you don't want me around for...whatever it is." Her roving eyes, assessing potential damage, lighted on the mysterious stone bowl she had found under the bed. It was sitting on the desk, and a weird silvery glow (which had certainly not been there when she saw it before) swirled and danced inside it. Moving behind the desk, Snape took out his wand and stuck the tip into the bowl; the light that played across his pale face as he stared down into it was a strange counterpoint to his shifting emotions. He looked up at her after a few moments, his face still tense, but with something like wonder or confusion—it was hard to say which—in his eyes.

"I don't understand you. All the times I've watched you in my memories before I put them back, and I still don't understand you."

"What is there to understand?" She shrugged, feeling uncomfortably as if she ought to leave. Now. She did not dare to take his warnings lightly anymore. The anger and perplexity, cruelty and gentleness waging war on his face were troubling enough by themselves to merit such a warning. And there might be worse.

"Look at yourself!" He gestured to the bowl. "Look at yourself and explain that."

Hesitant, but afraid of disobeying, Sarah moved closer. "What is this?" she asked, more than a little anxious about invoking a powerful magic that she did not understand.

"It's a Pensieve. It stores memories, allows you to watch them. It's supposed to give you...perspective," Snape twisted the word in his mouth, as if he had chewed on it and found it distasteful, and was about to spit it out. "_Look in it_," he ordered.

She bent over the bowl. The silvery light was curious...it flowed like water, like fog. Like neither, quite. As she stared, he prodded the bowl again and the light became a whirlpool which seemed to be washing the bowl of itself. It cleared, and there were images. Disturbing ones. She saw a brown-haired girl with flushed cheeks and defiant eyes—herself, although the vision was much stranger than any mirror. Even as she watched, an unhandsome middle-aged man with black, stringy hair and a fierce look about him bent to kiss the girl. Sarah glanced up quickly at the man across from her. It did not seem possible that the two men were one and the same, no matter what her eyes told her. A peculiar perspective indeed.

As she looked again, she realized with a shiver that she was watching their first night together. Had she not noticed, then, the puzzlement on his face, which so closely matched the expression he wore now, in the present? And had she considered, on that night, how many times had he tried to convince her to leave? She looked up; her face was burning hot from what little she'd seen in this bizarre self-voyeurism.

"Why did you come that night?" He was tensed, almost angry. "Why did you stay?"

Sarah stepped back from the Pensieve.

"Severus," she said, calling him very deliberately by his first name. "Put the memories back and I'll try to tell you." It was a risky request, partly because she wasn't sure what she was going to say. But she was very sure that, whatever it was, she could not say it to the man who was standing here now.

She watched him struggle with his fury: he was being told what to do by a _student_. The fact that whatever he was able to remember about her was enough for him to retain some presence of mind in dealing with her was both a surprise and a relief.

"Sit down," he ordered.

She thought it best to comply, although she remained tensed to spring away, if need be.

With the tip of his wand, he scooped up a large tendril of the silvery light, which hung there like strands of thread. He lifted it, placed the wand tip against his temple. It was slightly horrifying to watch the many twisted strands of the tendril penetrate his head and disappear.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, and sat down hard on his own chair. He was visibly trembling, and he clenched the chair arms until his knuckles stood out.

Sarah winced. Did it hurt? If so, how could Dumbledore force him to do this twice a week? Or—and it was a worse thought—was it so horrible for him to remember her place in his life? She felt very helpless watching his face contort with a troubling variety of emotions, his eyes forced closed. She wanted badly to ask if he was all right, but fear of the consequences of disturbing the process made her wary of doing so.

Finally, he became calmer. His breathing was still too quick, and his face, normally rigid (in whatever expression it wore), was weirdly relaxed. He opened his eyes.

"I didn't know it was like this," Sarah said, suddenly angry at Dumbledore. "I had no idea."

"It isn't...normally so bad." He grimaced slightly. "I meant it when I said your presence made it worse."

"I'm sorry." She could feel her own frown trembling. "I was worried."

"I know," he said. "I know."

Sarah could see that there were still tendrils of light swirling in the stone bowl. "Will the rest be like this?"

He sat up straighter in his chair, trying to project something of his normal self. "The rest of it does not concern you. I shall not put it back until you are gone."

They watched each other for half a minute.

"What's it like?" Sarah whispered. She tried to imagine having the substance of her memories stolen away, and having it come rushing back. He still looked...odd.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His eyes found something else to look at, maybe the jars on the shelves. "Almost like...a rough sketch...being transformed into a painting," he said. "More than visually." He let his gaze fall to her again, and it passed over her in something alarmingly like a caress. She had not expected anything like that. As she became aware of the subtle feeling of tension in the air, she began to feel extremely uncomfortable with the increasingly inescapable idea of him taking her back to his room under these conditions, with his memory still full of holes, his mind still shaky (she sensed) from everything that had occurred.

"What did Potter do to you?" she asked quietly, still wondering if outside help was needed.

"_Do not speak that name in my presence ever again!_" he roared. The abrupt shift to fury caught her off guard, although she immediately kicked herself for not having known better. Before she could realize that he had not risen from his seat, she was on her feet, holding up trembling hands, backing away.

He controlled his fury with an obvious effort. "Sarah, I don't want to hurt you. I'm not going to..." He closed his eyes, shook his head. "Had to cancel the lesson. Montague."

"Up in the toilet."

"You knew?" His eyes popped open again.

"Umbridge called all of us to help look for him."

"I might have known that...certain people would involve her. The fact that he was missing ought to have stayed within the House." He passed a hand over his face. "When I came back, he hadn't left...he was meddling with the Pensieve." It was obvious that 'he' was Harry Potter.

"Does he know about _us?_" Sarah gasped, the reason for such anger made clear. Now that Dumbledore was no longer the headmaster, Potter might have no influences upon him to prevent him from telling. In the course of her eavesdropping, Sarah had learned that Potter was no fonder of Snape than the Potions master was of him. She fumed: _if that boy said a single word..._

"No!" Snape snapped, so whip-like that she flinched, Potter forgotten. Snape went on, in a voice as vicious as she had ever heard him use, "You don't _really_ suppose that you are the only thing I would rather not have revealed?"

Even if the venom was not all aimed at her, she was in his line of fire, and it hurt. In self-defense she retorted, "Hardly. You've told me more than once that you have things you don't want revealed, not even to me."

She could not help looking pointedly down at the Pensieve, where those very memories were swirling. She could understand the temptation, although why Potter should have found it tempting, she could not imagine. Unless he really had hoped to find something to use against his hated professor. She thought of Potter, surrounded by a gaggle of other students on the morning after he had avoided being expelled—at Dumbledore's expense—and suddenly she saw the arrogant little berk that Snape had complained of.

"You have a problem with that?" he sneered.

"I have _never_ pried, and you know it," Sarah said. "I can understand wanting to keep certain things to yourself."

He blinked, his expression changing radically yet again; he still seemed far from stable.

"I asked you a question, before," he said bluntly. Sarah had been hoping he would forget about that. "Are you prepared to answer it, as you promised? Or is that still something you would prefer to keep to yourself?" He gave the final words a nasty little twist, as if he himself had no sympathy for such a feeling on her part.

Sarah lowered herself back onto her chair uneasily, trying to collect her thoughts sufficiently to reply. _Why did I come down to the dungeons that night? Why didn't I leave when he gave me the chance?_

"I'm not certain that I know," she said. His disbelieving sneer made her hurry on, "But I'll try to tell you what I _do_ know." She sighed quietly, knowing that he was as unlikely to sympathize with anything could say as McGonagall had been. She ought to watch his face, to gauge his reactions, but somehow she could not raise her eyes from her hands.

"I ought to have died that night, out in the graveyard. A traitorous daughter to her father's cause. It was justice, catching up to me. But I didn't die—I lived." She managed to glance up, as far as the Pensieve. "But I couldn't forget that night either. And it wasn't the man's face, or his wand threatening me." Finally she made herself look at him, daring him to dismiss her words. Her voice shook with the effort. "It was the feeling of your arms around me, your breath on the back of my head. I knew that you would never have held me like that, except by accident. I knew that you were probably arguing him down for your own sake, not mine. But I couldn't forget."

The anger faded from his face as she spoke, until now it was curiously blank.

"It was like Fate... Like the universe was taking another pot shot at me to make up for missing me the first time. And I thought I could outwit it. I thought that I could walk through the fire. That I could avoid the mistakes my mother made. That I would come out the other side, older and wiser and _safe_ from the machinations of...of Fate."

Slowly his face came to life again, mirroring the flow of his memories in the bowl before him.

"You weren't the first student ever to come down here trying to seduce me, you know," he murmured.

Sarah swallowed hard. "I never thought much about it."

"Didn't you? Admittedly, you were the first I ever invited to do so," he interjected. "But they came, now and again, hiding whatever they really felt, thinking I would be desperate enough to succumb. All of them wanted something—the dismissal of a punishment, a better mark in class. A few simply wanted influence with someone more powerful than themselves, and mistakenly believed that was the way to achieve it. Occasionally there was a dare involved, as I accused you."

Slowly his eyes had come into focus again, and now he was holding her gaze with his dark one, silently speaking realms of the unknown that she could not begin to interpret.

"You wanted nothing. Even seeing it, I didn't trust it. But contrary to all reason, you gave yourself...you kept on giving yourself..._unstintingly_. And, god help me, I wanted what you had to give. I had never..." he broke off. He was studying her. She could feel him measuring her against whatever it was he felt compelled to say. For that was how his words came out—as if he had been tortured for them, if only by himself. "The last time I did not have to take or pay for something like that, I was not very much older than you."

Sarah found herself shaking inside, even before what he had said managed to filter through her brain enough to consciously process it. She had never supposed she was the first, or even the second, not for a man of his age. But she had kept the grimmer possibilities of his past liaisons tucked away in the same corner as her other darkest fears. She had known they were there, but having them drawn out even partway into the light was, to her surprise, almost more than she could bear.

_What about the fellow apprentice girl, then?_ she thought, trying to turn her mind from the rest. She had known about that, from the very first night. "When you were an apprentice?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady enough that he would not stop talking, whatever had plunged him into this curious reverie. Anything to keep from thinking of the rest.

"Yes." His gaze went distant again. "We had a commission for a potion that required virgin's blood, and Brimshaw had none in stock. He offered Cassilda a significant bonus to...produce the necessary ingredient, and her choice of him or me. And believe me, anybody who knew the man would agree that it was no great compliment that she chose me. Neither of us knew what we were doing and it was over mercifully quickly."

He grimaced.

"But she came back, and... I thought it was simply a matter of convenience, apprentices of the same master, still in our first year. It never occurred to me until long afterward that it might have been anything else. Our feet were already set on different paths, even then. And by the time I thought to wonder about her, she had already long been dead. At the hands of one of my compatriots, no doubt."

His dark eyes hardened, coming back to the present. It was as if, having purged himself with such a confession, his mind was itself again, clear and sharp as always. "And that," he said, watching her darkly, "is more, I am certain, than you ever wished to know. And as much as you deserve for remaining here when I told you to go."

Sarah bit her lower lip, trying to still its trembling. She did not know what to say, much less what to do. _Stand up and walk out? Refuse to ever return? Forget it and go on as before?_ There was a definite appeal in that last. But how could anything ever be as it had been before? From his point of view, if not hers. "So," she asked bitterly, "do you hate me for knowing some of your secrets now?"

His mouth fell open slightly, one of those rare hints that she had said something that startled him. "Naturally," he said bluntly, "I wish you need never have known."

Sarah stood up. She was, she thought, at the end of her endurance. "I'll leave to you settle the rest of your memories in peace. As I should have done to begin with."

"Peace!" he snorted.

She turned to go.

"Don't..." he pleaded. When she turned around, startled to hear such a note in his voice, he finished, lamely, "...run. Sarah."

Before she could think better of it...before she could think of anything, he was on his feet and she was in his arms. Her breath was so ragged, he must think she was crying. He wouldn't tolerate that. How could she care for such a man? How could she give herself, night after night, to a man who...

_Who **what?** Who had been a Death Eater? Who had doubtless done everything she knew or guessed went with that very horrible avocation? Torture? Murder? _Against all reason, against all sense, Sarah held him tighter as those thoughts marched through her head. She had known for a long time what he was. _What right had she to back away now? What right had she to be disgusted...sickened...frightened?_ She knew what it was to do things she despised, for scarcely any good reason. How much more must he feel the effects—assuming that he still let himself feel anything at all, and she could hardly blame him if he did not—from whatever the Dark Lord required him to do?

The worst had not begun, she knew. In her earliest childhood, when the Dark Lord had been at the height of his former power, there had been threats, tortures, killings almost every night. She didn't remember that, exactly. Only the sense of power that had pervaded her home, the sense of fear in the air when they had gone to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Very little of that kind was happening yet. But more would, she was certain, the more his power grew. And what would happen then, when Severus was called upon to do such things again? He couldn't lay down a silver badge. He couldn't tell the Dark Lord to go wank himself. He was a dead man if he failed to play that game all the way through to its end, whatever the end might be. His position might protect him from the worst of orders. Might. And if, some night, he should stumble back to her with blood on his hands...

No. He wouldn't. He would wash his hands first, and pretend nothing had happened. And that might be worse.

Did she have the courage, she wondered, to take his hands in hers on such a night?

Did she have the right, having made the choices she had made regarding him thus far, to do anything less?

"This is dangerous," he whispered, his grip on her slackening. "Go back to your room. For now."

She nodded, numbly. With a desolate kiss, he sent her off. She left him staring down at the swirling silver lights in the Pensieve. Somehow she was out in the hallway. Whatever Draco Malfoy said to her didn't register.

"I'd leave him alone for now, if I were you," she said, brushing past the boy. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

She heard something that sounded an awful lot like, "Gryffindor cunt..." She whirled around, her wand out, her senses coming back. They were alone in the corridor.

"Maybe your dear Death Eater daddy would like to know how you talk to Malcolm Darkglass's daughter. Or maybe the Dark Lord would be interested in knowing the Malfoys' attitude toward his martyrs?" Sarah felt sick at what she was saying, but the words kept coming. "I imagine I could arrange for him to find out."

Draco Malfoy went very, very pale; his wand hand shook. "You...you couldn't. You're still at school, and your father is dead."

"You have no idea, do you? Are you even sure he'll let you take the Dark Mark...the spoiled little snot of a family that's publicly denied him for fourteen years?" It was a good thing that horror looked so very much like anger. "I know where I stand. I know what I can count on. You think I can't step straight from Hogwarts into the Inner Circle? Unless you can say the same, you'd better not make an enemy of me, Malfoy. You'd just better not." Her own wand was shaking.

Malfoy turned and ran.

Sarah began walking up the stairs, her wand still out, the haze descending again over her mind. She went into the first bathroom she passed, and threw up.

"I'm sorry," she choked out in a whisper, her hand on the slight roundness of her stomach. "I'm sorry, Severian. I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Her father would have been proud of her.

And Severus?

She needed him. Soon. Even if the only comfort he could offer was understanding. She was not even sure she wanted sympathy. She did not deserve it. But he would comprehend the stain she had just spilled on her soul. And she had no choice, now, except to trust whatever he chose to do about it.

**

* * *

A/N:** Draco Malfoy has staged quite the invasion of this story. He was originally meant to have the briefest of cameos. I used him in the beginning to help establish Sarah's background, and when I needed someone to remind our intrepid lovers of the danger they were really in, he seemed a likely and useful candidate for the job. I didn't quite count on Sarah having the same knee-jerk reaction to him that Harry did. Nor did I think he would keep coming back for more. Obviously, I underestimated the little twit. 

Up next—happier times (however briefly) for Sarah and Severus. Easter is here! Let's head for Knockturn Alley.


	26. Ch 25: You Know I Do

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Remember, FIFF (fan-fic is for fun)! No harm intended.

**A/N:** I have such great reviewers! You earnestly surprised me with your positive reception of the last chapter. I guess you are made of sterner stuff than I would have predicted! Hang onto that thought for future reference. Anyway, many thanks to Kay50, Aiden, cecelle and lucidity (who did me the honor of being my guinea pig for this chapter), especially for the b-day wishes. Aiden—I try to post at least once a week, although not on any particular day. If you join up, you can get update alerts automatically.

The chapter you're about to read actually made me cry when I was writing it. I can't promise it will do the same for you, but that's the first time I've ever cried at my own fiction.

Discworld fans will want to keep their eyes peeled as we walk through Knockturn Alley. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 25: You Know I Do**

The Easter holiday was to begin on Friday, and Sarah found that she was looking forward to it more than she had ever looked forward to any holiday in her life. What was the warm Mediterranean Sea or the dusty pyramids to spending a whole week _not having to pretend?_

Or at least, not having to pretend that she meant nothing to Severus Snape.

She could sleep all night in same bed, walk by his side in the daylight, talk to him whenever she pleased, eat at the same table...

Okay, so she was getting carried away. But after a week of horrors, the prospect of a holiday in London was like the bursting forth of the sun after a night-dark storm. Even if they would be staying in Knockturn Alley.

He had refused to say more, after that blunt revelation. Having forced her to admit that she had never been there—since it was not a place that a gentleman (even one who was a Death Eater) would take his wife or daughter—Severus had declared that she would see for herself soon enough; it was not worth the waste of his breath to describe it. His lack of enthusiasm put a slight damper on her spirits. But it only took the thought that she would be spending _the whole holiday _far, faraway from Dolores Umbridge to buoy up her anticipation again.

* * *

It had been a truly terrible week. He had forbidden her to come back on Wednesday night. _For both our sakes_, he had written. And though she had tried to explain something of her horror in her return note, it was not until the next night, when he had shown her how to use the Pensieve and had watched that memory for himself, while she took a blessed reprieve from it, that she'd believed he'd actually understood what had happened. And by then, her misery and her desperation to escape from herself had turned her inside out and back so many times that the initial shock had faded. The fact that he had not been there _right at that moment_, when she needed him most, had left a kind of empty space in her growing desire to rely upon him. 

_Which might be just as well_, the shrinking sensible corner of her mind averred. Among his several reactions to her confrontation with Malfoy (sandwiched in between his anger that she had risked a duel with Draco and a cold sympathy for her anguish) was the same regretful pleasure she so often saw in his eyes these days.

"_You've taken a necessary step,"_ he had told her.

"_To what? Towards the darkness?"_

"_Towards pretending to darkness."_

"_I'm afraid! I'm afraid that it won't stay pretend! I'm afraid that the darkness will never wash off my soul!"_

He had turned up his sleeve very deliberately, the only time he had ever intentionally shown her his Dark Mark. Not for long. A moment later it was hidden again.

"_I can still turn my arm to whatever purposes I require of it."_

The object lesson had not been lost on her. It grieved her still, in ways that she had yet to unravel. And though she had accepted the embrace of both those arms that night, his insistence on her strength was its own burden, and her heart was still troubled at the sacrifice he seemed willing to make of her.

But then, he had warned her of that, too, a long time ago.

* * *

The plan for getting her to London was relatively simple. Her shakiness about Apparating, once he learned of it, put all consideration of that means of travel aside. She was in no condition to risk splinching herself. The Hogwarts Express did not run—not as an express, at least—for the Easter holiday, since relatively few students went home for it. Since she had no inclination to fly a broom all the way to London, that left the Knight Bus, to which Sarah had no objections. 

The specifics of their meeting in London, however, were...well...objectionable.

She was to change, in the lavatory of The Leaky Cauldron, into the most suggestive clothes she owned. A full, red skirt was about the best she could do, with the waistband hitched uncomfortably high, covered by an embroidered black top that was skintight to the arms and definitely suggestively snug across her expanding bust line, if loose around the waist. Then she was to don her best cloak, with the hood up to cover her hair, and a sheer black veil that Severus supplied (she did not ask where he got it). And once she was in this get-up, she was to stand and wait outside the entrance to Knockturn Alley.

Meanwhile, Severus would have Apparated to his flat with the small trunk containing what they needed for the week. He was supposed to be browsing in Diagon Alley, so that the moment she took up her post, he could saunter over before anyone else got the same idea, cross her palm with a few coins, and lead her back to his rooms.

"What if someone accosts me between The Leaky Cauldron and Knockturn Alley?" she protested.

"You _do_ have a wand. It would take no more than a simple, judicious hex to protect yourself in broad daylight. Besides," he went on, "the veil will be off-putting. No knowing what you have to hide."

"It's..._degrading_," Sarah said, folding her arms stiffly across her chest.

"Fine. If you can think of a disguise that will allow you walk with me, without remark, through Knockturn Alley, by all means, suggest it!"

There was no other solution, of course. Apart from the risk of being recognized, no lady of any quality—and certainly no girl of her age—would walk willingly into Knockturn Alley. She could not possibly pass for a local, Severus informed her. And any other nefarious disguise she took up would still have the problem of producing a plausible, unremarkable excuse for her presence in the rooms of Severus Snape.

"All right. But I don't like it."

"I never expected you to."

"And I suppose you enjoy the thought of me passing as a tart?"

"As a matter of fact, I _don't_," he said. "So don't play your role too well. If I see you flirting with any other man, he's likely to end up hexed to incapacity."

"Jealous?" she teased.

"Very." He pulled her close. Suddenly all the humor left her. The possessiveness of his grip was chilling. She made herself relax, so as prevent her reaction from being apparent. But after one brief kiss, he let her loose. Not much got past him anymore.

"Something," she averred, "is sure to go wrong."

* * *

Remarkably, nothing did. 

There was a bad moment, true, when she had to confess her financial circumstances, with regards to her bus fare. He did grumble a bit, handing over the coins from his own purse. But everything else went exactly according to plan. Sarah took it as a good omen.

Knockturn Alley was narrower and much dingier than Diagon Alley, lined with ramshackle shops (or at least what appeared to be shops, from the activity around their doors), many of which had no signs posted to declare their merchandise, just displays in the windows. Obviously, if you came to Knockturn Alley, you needed to know exactly what you were looking for. Although what you were looking for might well come to you. Dubious-looking vendors offered numerous items from trays—human fingernails, the tails of various animals, cheaply-made bracelets that their hawkers claimed were enchanted for purposes ranging all the way from simple attraction charms to binding the wearer to one's will. A scroungy man approached with a tray of rather sorry-looking sausages on sticks.

"Three Knuts'll get you two, gov'ner," he offered.

Sarah was hungry, but not that hungry. She was fervently grateful when Severus did not stop.

"A Knut each, then!" the fellow tried, as they passed. "An' that's cuttin' me own throat!"

"That might put an end to your misery, Dib. And everyone else's," Severus spat back, before pressing on.

Before she remembered the veil that hid her face, Sarah was fearful that she was gaping around like a newcomer. She sensed, from the shifty glances of an occasional witch or wizard who lounged against a wall or in a shadowy alcove, that strangers could easily become prey here. Her current disguise, while it helped her fit in, made her no more comfortable about her safety. There were other girls along the street whose trappings proclaimed that their professions were the same as the one that she was counterfeiting. Sarah saw one of them stand up from her lounging place against the wall of a chandler's and take a handful of coins from a raggedy-robed man whose face was covered with scars and poxes. She herself would have been hesitant even to come within spitting distance of him.

In some places, it was difficult to find a way through, due to more Dark Arts wares spread on large mats that took up substantial sections of the way. On one of these mats, a witch was sitting with her bare, scarred arm revealed, offering her own blood for sale, either fresh or in various dried or bottled forms. But finally, after a bend to the left, the street widened slightly, and Severus began guiding her toward a door, just ahead on the right.

It did not seem to belong to a shop, although there was another chandler's on one side (Grisby's Candles For All Purposes, according to one of the rare signs). On the other side, a blank, windowless expanse of wall held a set of stout double doors that suggested the merest possibility of access. But the house they were approaching had muslin curtains in its lower windows.

A couple of women stood near the door of the house. One, of indeterminate youth, had sharp features and long, blond curls and wore a dress that shimmered like a rainbow wherever the light hit it. The other, perhaps a little younger, had her dark hair tied up loosely on her head; a large silver charm covered with suggestive shapes hung against the low bodice of her blood-red gown. From the moment they noticed the strange, veiled girl, both women assumed postures of disdain, glaring at her as if she were taking their custom. It occurred to her, suddenly, that she probably was. She took some meager comfort in the fact that Severus did not give them a second glance as he went past.

She followed him up two flights of narrow, rickety stairs. At a door with an elegant number '24' painted on it in black, scarcely to be seen against the dark wood, he took out his wand and began lifting a long series of wards. Finally, he turned a small brass key in the lock and opened the door.

"Wait," he said. He stepped inside first, as if to be certain that it was safe, then ushered her into the room.

It was not much of a flat. There were only two rooms: in the back, a bedroom, where their trunk now rested; in the front, what had originally been a kitchenette. It had been transformed into an efficient, if small and makeshift, potions lab.

"You'll find the lavatory at the end of the hall." He pointed in the direction. "The bathroom is on the first floor. Gretta Dorn, the proprietor, has a house-elf named Turla. She knows better than to mess with my things, but she does keep the dust down and the bins emptied. And if you leave your clothes in that corner at night, she'll have them laundered by morning."

Sarah sank down on the end of the bed and pulled off the veil, looking around at the dingy room. Aunt Portia would be horrified. She was a little horrified herself.

"Do you live here all summer?"

"For a few weeks." He let his eyes rove around the room; it was difficult to say what he thought of it. Not distaste precisely, if not any real fondness for the place. "I come to London often enough, to buy ingredients. I prefer to have a refuge here that I can secure properly. These are the rooms I took when I finished my apprenticeship, and I kept them. Dorn lets them to me for little enough; she would as soon have a tenant who is seldom here."

Sarah could feel a lingering aura of power, the tingle of dark magic in the air. Old, maybe...such things took a long time to fade. It was such a familiar feeling. All the way up the Alley it had been like this, on some level. And while this was a far remove from Darkglass Hall, if she shut her eyes...

"Sarah? You're trembling."

"It's just...it's like home. In a way."

"Would you call it a good way? Or a bad way?"

Sarah opened her eyes. His own dark gaze was fixed on her with earnest intent.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Then I want you to imagine it in a good way."

"I don't mind being here, if that's what you mean," Sarah said, trying to convince herself as much as him. "Anywhere away from Hogwarts."

"That isn't what I meant." He sat down next to her and laid a finger along the line of her jaw, cradling her chin. "If you are to convince the Dark Lord that you can be trusted, you must have the right emotions to hide the truth. I'm going to start teaching you Occlumency this week."

"But what about...?" She didn't dare say the boy's name.

"You don't really suppose Potter will come back, do you?" he sneered, letting his hand fall from her face.

Sarah let her eyes fall with his hand. She shook her head. But even though it meant she had Severus to herself again, she could not be happy about it, somehow. It had cost both of them too much.

"It's important, while we're here," Severus said, turning his attention back to his previous topic, "for you to build up memories; you need to enjoy being surrounded again by the Dark Arts."

Sarah looked up, stunned. "How can you ask me to do that?"

"Because I have no other choice!" he snapped. Then, more gently, yet firmly, "Sarah, tell me: how is it you manage to sit in my classroom and yet reveal nothing, by the least word or deed, of what is between us?"

She was glad to turn her thoughts to something she could cope with. "I'm...I'm someone else then. The girl I would have been if Halloween hadn't happened. If I hadn't come downstairs to...to be with you. Just Sarah Darkglass, instead of...Sarah Snape." It was the first time she had spoken that name aloud. She was a little surprised at how smoothly it slipped from her tongue. How nice it sounded. How the only baggage it carried with it was the snarky reputation of the most recent Potions master at Hogwarts.

"Good. I thought as much," Severus said. "What you must do now is to create another self, just as you did before. Another history, another truth for yourself, to wear around your mind whenever it becomes necessary."

Sarah stared at him, trying to sort out the ramifications of what he was suggesting. She whispered, "My father's daughter..."

Severus took her by the shoulders. "Shall I spell out the details? You are a girl who greatly admired her father, admired the power he wielded, the cause he served. A girl," he went on, inexorably, "who resented being taken from him by a mother who was too weak to survive her own defiance. A girl who saw, in me, her teacher, that same power, and a path back to the world which had been stolen from her. Sarah _Darkglass_ Snape."

As he spoke, she shut her eyes convulsively, trying to shut out the darkness that wound itself around her with every word. What he was suggesting, Sarah realized, was so dangerously, painfully close to the truth. Just a twist, just a step away. She had loved her father so much. Had even admired him, before she had understood what he was. Her loyalty to her mother had not let her admit it, not for all these years. How could she do anything but hate the man who had sent her mother a poison made by his own hand, who had taken advantage of her weakness—which had been, in truth, nothing more than Julia's love and loyalty for him—and urged her to use it to end her life? But that was not the man who had cradled his daughter on his lap as he taught her to read, who had brought her sweets from town, who had tucked her in at night as often as he was there, who had, she had once believed, loved her more dearly than any other person on earth. What Severus had described was too close to the truth. It showed her what a very little distance she had to plummet to become that girl in reality. Her whole frame began trembling again, relentlessly. She did not want to fall.

Her voice was a thin, desperate whisper, full of unshed tears. "_I don't think I can bear what you're doing to me_."

Severus shook her. "You _will_ bear it. You're strong enough to bear it, Sarah. Strong enough to survive this. Strong enough to _live_."

Bitterness welled up in her suddenly. She had not realized how much his words up on the tower that night had rankled, all these months. "Oh, yes, I have to live, don't I? At least until _your son_ is safely born."

"Until...?" She heard his breath drain out slowly. He drew it sharply again. "Do you really believe that's all that matters to me?"

Sarah looked up at him, feeling her face twist into scorn. "Have you ever given me a reason to believe anything else?"

It wasn't until she saw his expression change that she realized that her question had popped out in anger. She had not really wanted an answer.

"I never imagined that you didn't...I thought you understood," he stammered. Severus Snape, who might spit or splutter, but never, ever stammered. "Sarah, I..."

"No!" She pressed her fingers to his lips, stopping him.

_Dear God, was he about to tell her that he **loved** her? Of all things, she had never expected that._

"Sarah," he protested, through her fingers, bringing his hand up to pull hers away.

"Listen to me!" she pleaded. "When the time comes that you have to kill me—"

"Stop—"

"No! Listen to me. _If_ that time comes," she allowed, "I want to be able to look into your eyes before I die and know that you never thought, even for a moment, of doing anything else. I want to know that there was _never_ a choice to be made in your mind. I _need_ to know it. I will _not_ die betrayed that way." She had thought her voice was steady. No, it _had_ been steady. But suddenly she was choking out great sobs that would not let her breathe.

Severus, his eyes as wounded as she had ever seen, gathered her against his chest. "_Sarah,_" he whispered her name against her hair, over and over. He let her weep, which frightened her so much that she struggled harder to control herself. Once she had managed to swallow the last sob, she looked up at him, afraid of what she would see in his face.

"I have been told that pregnant women are subject to hysterical episodes," he said condescendingly. But his eyes were glittering strangely, and Sarah realized, with gratitude, that his harsh comment was intended solely to let her save face.

"I guess it's true." She wiped her face on the edge of her cloak. "I can blame these little crying jags on Severian."

"Severian?"

Sarah held her breath.

"Severian," he said again.

"Is that all right? If it isn't..."

"How long ago did you choose that name?"

"As...as soon as I knew," she admitted.

"Severian Snape..." He looked almost shocked, and his eyes went to her abdomen. "Sweet Merlin, that seems so very real." He passed a hand over his face, wiping away with it all emotion. "Well, there's something to it," he allowed, with a dismissive air.

"Now," he went on. "It's past time for dinner. We must get you something to eat."

"Out in Diagon Alley?" Sarah appealed.

He chuckled. "There's more to eat here than Dib's sausages, but as you wish."

"You never cook?" Sarah asked, as they passed the erstwhile kitchen.

"On occasion. Nothing fancy. Tea, of course. I reheat curry over the cauldron fire and pray that nothing cross-contaminates."

"That could be interesting. Maybe you could experiment."

"Believe me, Chaudhri's curry is already a potions experiment."

* * *

They brought the curry back to the flat. Chaudhri's stall was almost to the other end of Knockturn Alley (the better end, as she discovered to her surprise, was _away_ from Diagon Alley), and although everyone here seemed to be minding their own business, Severus nodded to a few people, who nodded back. He also made more terse comments to her about what she was seeing. Not a travelogue, by any means, nor a gossipy reminiscence, but enough to make it clear that he knew the place very well indeed. 

"Did you grow up here?" she asked, at one point, as they were on their way back.

"Yes." He offered nothing more, however, in the way of explanation. Sarah decided to let the matter alone for time being. She had all week to find out.

Over the curry (which was as experimental as promised), Sarah asked, "So, what are our plans for the week?"

"Lessons."

"Just lessons?"

"You have a lot to learn, and very little time in which to learn it."

"Well, Easter _is_ a holiday!" she complained.

"Are you saying you want to go to mass?" he teased.

"That's not what I meant. But yes, I will go, if you come with me."

He grunted noncommittally into his curry.

"I don't want to stay cooped in here all week." Sarah hugged herself. "Might as well have stayed in the dungeons."

"I'll take you to visit my family tomorrow. That should be adequate excitement to suit you."

"Family?" she echoed. She had scarcely thought about him having a family. He had never once mentioned a relative. She had assumed that he was as orphaned as herself.

"Tomorrow. I don't wish to think about that tonight. I had other things in mind." He leered at her, setting the remnants of his curry aside.

"What about lessons?" she challenged, determined to tease him back while he was in the frame of mind for it. "Shouldn't you start teaching me Occlumency right away?"

"I suppose prying into your mind could be an interesting warm-up," he said, approaching her, calling her bluff.

Suddenly she realized something. "Where's the Pensieve?" She didn't think he had packed it.

"Back at Hogwarts."

"But...what if...I thought..." she blurted out, or tried to.

"Don't worry about it for now." He stopped her mouth with a kiss. "In fact, you will not worry for the entire holiday. I refuse to permit you to do so. I will do any worrying that's needed. You," he began disrobing her, "will eat and sleep and make love to me, not necessarily in that order. You will not think about the Wolfsbane Potion at all. And you will obey me in anything else I tell you to. For a change."

"Oh, no," Sarah said, lodging her finger against his chest. "You didn't pay me enough for that, gov'ner."

He lifted the ring, where it hung on its chain around her neck, and brought it to her eyes. "I've endowed you with all my worldly goods. I confess they're not much. But I'm quite prepared to worship you with my body. Is that not price enough?"

She did not know what to say. Perhaps his reasoning was sound, but her soul still rebelled at the thought of surrendering her will entirely to anyone, least of all to a man who walked such a fine line between right and wrong, dark and light. She took the wisest course she knew and answered him with another kiss.

Although she had not allowed him to speak the words—if, indeed, he had been about to say them—the sense of adoration in every caress tonight was undeniable (how long had it been there, ignored?) as he made her his yet again. That fierce possessiveness was there, too. It would never be otherwise with him, she supposed. When she yielded herself to it utterly, as she sometimes did, the experience was usually well worth the very minor injury to her pride. And how could she hold anything back tonight, when what he was doing was so much more than the mere satisfaction of mutual desires, when he was so very clearly making _love_ to her? Even her heart began to slip its traces under that influence.

_Do you love him?_

_Can I risk that much?_

_Can he risk that much for you?_

_Are we lost?_

She lay in the darkness when they were done, her hand resting on the slight swell of her abdomen. His child. She felt a surge of her own fierce possessiveness, so powerful it startled her. And then something else. A motion so subtle it was like butterflies' wings. A flickering inside her. She caught her breath. It stilled.

"What's wrong?" Severus asked, half-asleep.

Sarah thought of the look on his face when he had spoken his son's name. Spooked, almost. He had realized, she thought, that he was going to be a father to more than an invisible idea that had sprung from his seed. She wondered what would happen when her belly was truly, undeniably swollen. Could he bear to make love to her then? Or would one of those girls downstairs be coming up to this room again?

"Sarah?"

"Nothing," she whispered.

"Don't tell me 'nothing.'"

She took a breath. "I don't know if you could feel it."

"What?" he asked, in wakeful exasperation.

She took the hand he had brought around her waist when he turned over, and guided it down to press just below her navel. It was such a risk, she thought. He might feel nothing at all. He might consider it useless feminine sentiment. He might decide all the sooner that it was a frightening thing to be the father of a real child.

"It was so subtle," she said. "But I felt him move."

Severus surprised her with his patience. Perhaps it was because he was used to waiting on potions that would not be hurried. Certainly he was never so patient with people. Sarah was beginning to wonder if she had only imagined the sensation, if (embarrassingly) it had only been the curry, when the fluttering came again. Then again.

"So very subtle," he whispered. His hand pressed tighter, finding the hard, round knot of her womb beneath her flesh. "When I die," he said, "that will not be the end of me."

It was too dark to see his face. But there were tears in his voice. "Severian."

* * *

**A/N:** I shamelessly stole (albeit in paraphrase) Severus's almost-last-line in this chapter from Rickman's almost-last-line in _An Awfully Big Adventure_, which is one of my top three favorite AR films. It's a beautifully tragic line in the film; not so here, of course. The film itself is an odd but deeply moving (IMO) coming-of-age tragedy. Not a comedy, contrary to the marketing. (_Truly, Madly, Deeply_ seems to suffer from the same mislabeling, alas.) But I think those who like my story would probably enjoy it. Even though Stella is not Sarah, and P. L. O'Hara is not Snape (nor, for that matter, is Rickman _my_ Snape), their interactions do give some impression of what the age difference would actually _look_ like. Oh, and while I'm suggesting supplemental material, if you haven't seen Rickman in the music video "In Demand" (by a Scottish band called Texas—go figure), I recommend it highly (although it, too, is somewhat tragic, in the storyline), again, for a look at the age difference (although you may not want to restrain yourself from just plain drooling). 

I had one of my occasional artistic fits this week and drew a couple of illustrations inspired by this chapter. Not that I'm much of an artist. But if you'd like to see what I came up with, check out my homepage on my profile.

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler (from Terry Prachett's Discworld series) seems like such a perfect denizen for Knockturn Alley that I couldn't resist stealing him for a little cameo. I'm sure he made it back to Ankh-Morpork none the worse for wear. :)

I'm afraid I gave in to the temptation to sprinkle in a little of our lovers' underground lapsed-Catholic background again. I couldn't resist having Severus make a little play on some of the proper words of the religious marriage ceremony, which of course they didn't get to have.

Up next—our first look at Snape's family. Does that qualify as a cliffhanger? ;)


	27. Ch 26: I'm Here With You, Beside You

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** J. K. Rowling (and those to whom she's sold certain rights) own Harry Potter and his universe. I owe her a deep debt of thanks for creating them. And for not suing the pants off all of us for playing in her world!

**A/N:** Thank you to Lady Whitehart, unique-lady, lucidity, Kay50, Darla and cecelle for reviewing the last chapter. Y'all are great!

Since it's very probable that in a few more weeks we'll learn things about Snape's background that will explode everything in the next couple of chapters, I can only say: enjoy it while you can. So, without further ado...

* * *

**Chapter 26: I'm Here With You, Beside You**

Sarah woke first, as usual, upon the merest hint of sunlight through the dingy windows. As soon as she had finished her morning toilet (including a rather nervous bath, one flight down), she looked restlessly around the flat for something to do. There was, however, nothing that needed doing. Turla the house-elf was apparently efficient—even the curry containers were gone. But in truth, the rooms had little in them to tidy; they were as devoid of personality as his suite in Hogwarts reeked of it.

Finally she decided the only thing for her to do was to make tea. She found the remnants of an elderly packet of Occam's Black among the jars of ingredients in the cupboard, and a kettle that she Scourgified twice before she decided trust it. While she set that to heat (tea never seemed to taste right with a Boiling Charm), she gave the teapot and two mismatched china cups a similar cleansing. Then she set to work identifying the ingredients in the jars, looking for something useful. She was just pouring out for herself when Severus appeared in the doorway.

"I thought you were sleeping in?" Sarah said.

"You woke me when you got up, and I couldn't get properly back to sleep," he grumbled.

"Sorry," she said, offering him the cup.

He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a sip. "Poisoning me with experiments?"

"I had to do something to stretch it out. We _must _buy fresh tea today. And it isn't poisonous. "

"It's tolerable," he allowed, taking another sip.

"So, what first today?" She sat down with her own cup. "Lessons? Or visits?"

"Visits. The lessons will seem a great deal better in comparison."

"You don't like your family," she observed.

"Liking doesn't come into it," he said. "I would have thought that you could appreciate that."

Sarah frowned sheepishly. He had a point.

"Who are we going to visit?" she asked hesitantly. "Your mother?" Sarah had a rather fearsome vision of Mrs. Snape: a carbon-copy of her son in female form, with greying hair pulled sharply into a bun, and cane to thump on the ground while she verbally flayed her daughter-in-law.

"My mother is dead," he said, to the tea still in his cup.

"Your father?" Although something he had said once...

He took another sip. "I have no idea. I never knew him, not even so much as his name. A Muggle probably," he grimaced. "Maybe a half-blood. Someone my grandfather would have disapproved of, one way or another. He said such terrible things to her," his jaw tightened, "trying to get to her to tell him who the man was, but she never would. Not even to me. Though perhaps she was afraid he would beat it out of me, if he thought I knew."

"I thought Slytherins had to be purebloods?" Sarah said, unsure if she meant to comfort him or not with such a statement.

"Well, there is that." He sipped at his tea again. "I don't know. I fancied, for a time, when I was a boy, that I might even be the Dark Lord's bastard son. But my grandfather would have been proud of a thing like that. And of course, it wasn't true." Severus shook his head, as if trying to dispel the thoughts he had conjured up. "It's almost too bad he didn't live to meet you," he said, with curious bitterness. "Unfortunately for him, he assumed that the same loyalties would hold true, even after the Dark Lord disappeared. He tried to double-cross the wrong person when there was no longer anybody foolish enough to bail him out."

Sarah frowned at the evident misfortunes of this memorial litany.

Severus shrugged. "I am taking you to meet my uncle. The only man who might possibly fight with you over the possession of my corpse—assuming there's enough of it left to bury—and, of course, whatever little is left in my purse. I want him to know who he's up against." He fixed Sarah with such a vicious twinkle in his eye that it would have put Albus Dumbledore to shame.

* * *

After breakfast (at a stand near his flat), and shopping for a few staples (including the tea), Severus led Sarah down a narrow passage between buildings into a cobbled yard with a wide back gate that, to all appearances, let out into Muggle London. Huddled against the main building, presumably a warehouse, was a rickety-looking shack. Severus opened the door slowly. 

"Rooster's eggs," he said, as if it were some watchword.

"Oh, it's you." When the door had swung fully open, they were revealed to the disgruntled speaker, and he to them. Behind a counter, doing paperwork, sat a narrow fellow with straggly, dark blonde hair and one of those perpetually youthful faces that might as easily mask thirty or more years with the mere quarter century he looked. He slid aside a door panel in the back wall and called out, "Hey yuh, Caius! Sev's here."

"Dev Crabbe," Severus said. Sarah was not sure if it was meant to be an introduction; it sounded as if it were an insult.

"Devin," the man corrected, addressing his remark to Sarah.

"So, Severus," a man's voice boomed out, "what's driven you to darken my door?" At these last words, Caius emerged from the doorway panel. He was more solidly built than his nephew, and clearly a good deal older, but his nose, eyes and stringy black hair (although bound back in a long pigtail) proclaimed their relatedness. "Well, well, what've we here?" he said, spying Sarah. She had removed her veil, at Severus's instructions, when they came into the yard, and now Caius was staring at her exposed face with an undisguised leer. "Sure's to let me know when you're done with her, boy."

She felt Severus bristle, but he said silkily, "I'll give Miriam the message."

Devin Crabbe snorted.

"Sarah," Severus said, in a formal tone, "this is my uncle, Caius Snape. Caius, this is my apprentice, Sarah."

"Ho ho, a Potions apprentice, is it?" Caius mocked.

"Better watch your step with her, Pop," Devin put in, looking up from the file he had turned back to. "Lest you get poisoned one night."

"I came to inquire," Severus said, a certain tightness evident in his even tone, "if we would be welcome to Easter dinner."

Caius grunted. "Why not ask Miriam?"

"Miriam's welcome has never been in doubt. It's yours that I won't intrude upon without your invitation."

"Fine, then." The man threw up his arms. "But bring the moll. So's I have summat else to look at than your face."

* * *

"Charming man," Sarah observed, when they were back out in Knockturn Alley again. 

Severus looked at her sharply, as if in doubt of her sarcasm. "How is your precious Gryffindor curiosity now?"

"As curious as ever," Sarah said, deadpan. "Although I confess that I did feel in need of your protection. But you didn't even flinch for your wand. That surprised me."

"Considering that Caius taught me half the curses I know, I wouldn't care to duel him unless I had no other choice. Besides," he said, "it would be counterproductive for the moment. Pretend to be pleasant. But not too pleasant." He brought up a warning finger. "And rely on Miriam."

"Your aunt?"

"Caius's wife. I was in school before he married her and took in those two brats she already had as my substitutes. No blame to her, although she might have shown better taste in husbands."

When they returned with their shopping to the flat, they found an owl tapping impatiently on the kitchen window. Sarah hurried to let it in. She did not recognize the owl; it was not Aunt Portia's.

"It's for you," Sarah said, handing him the envelope. She thought she might have seen the handwriting on the envelope before, but she couldn't place it and there was no return address.

Severus opened it and scanned the contents. He frowned and his jaw clenched.

"What is it?"

He looked up at her, and she felt a sense of despair. She had begun to hope, after the last few days, that she would never see that shuttered look in his eyes again. In disgust she blurted out, "Surely the Dark Lord doesn't send you messages by _owl?_"

Without warning, the corners of his mouth twisted.

Sarah raised her eyebrows.

Severus easily controlled whatever impulse to amusement he'd felt, his face resuming its usual serious mien. "Not directly, no. But his other servants do sometimes use the mundanities of owl post. This is not, however," he held up the letter, "anything of the kind."

"It's bad news," Sarah deduced.

"In a sense, yes. Indeed, in more ways than one." He folded up the letter and dropped it on the table with a sigh. "We shall have to be more careful here than I supposed. Do you remember the man who...almost killed you, there in the graveyard?"

"Yes," Sarah said. Even though the memories of her Potions professor at her back had been the more haunting ones, she was not likely ever to forget the face of the man who had stood there in front of her, mocking Snape, plotting to frame him for Sarah's murder.

"His name is Isaac Connor. We ran together for a time in our youth, although we seldom strictly got along. I had not seen him for many years until that night, and although his actions made it plain that he'd taken service with the Dark Lord, he obviously did not know that I had. Perhaps he may, now, if our master has chosen to tell him so." Severus looked very grim. "He was taken by the Aurors, but the evidence against him was unfortunately meager. The headmaster did not want any students to become involved in testifying against him, and it was unwise for me to do so. He was held in Azkaban on suspicion while his background was being investigated. He is not an important enough person—to either side, apparently—for that to have happened very quickly. But either he covered his tracks well or else somebody in the Ministry is protecting him. In any event, he was released yesterday."

Sarah felt a coldness start like a spell in the marrow of her bones. "Will he come looking for you?"

"Perhaps. He was never one to pursue a grudge actively, when I knew him, although he never forgot one either, as you may have noticed that night. Certainly, if we cross paths again, he may attempt to gain revenge for his months in Azkaban. It's unlikely that he will suspect that I'm here, not unless he _does_ seek out information about me. But if he does...well, any boy in the Alley would be happy to sell him the fact that Severus Snape is back for the Easter holidays. In any event, it would be wisest to watch our backs a little more carefully this week."

Sarah nodded, feeling both frightened and resentful that the worry-free holiday he had promised her was being taken away. "Is that all that was in the letter?"

That look in his eyes again, that said he was not going to tell her. A wave of defiance rose in response. Deliberately, she reached out her hand for the folded parchment on the table.

Severus grasped her wrist before she could pick it up. "I will not tolerate you questioning my judgment."

"Do you consider me so much a child that _my_ judgment cannot be trusted?" Sarah stubbornly tried to ignore the pain in her wrist. "Even if I need to know the whole truth in order to protect myself?"

"You cannot tell what you do not know," he said, just as stubbornly, and with a much blacker look.

"You think I would betray you to anyone?" She was outraged, offended.

"Willingly? No. But if you should fail to satisfy the Dark Lord about your loyalty, he will have every reason to question you. To pry open your mind for its every secret. To make you wish you had more to tell him, just to make the agony stop."

Sarah set her jaw, but her arm was shaking in his grasp. His black eyes were deep with horrors.

"Don't even begin to imagine that you could resist. His servants alone have broken fully-trained Aurors into gibbering madmen, and that is nothing to what he himself has the capability of doing." His own hand, she realized, was trembling now. "When there is a thing I refuse to tell you, you will not attempt to circumvent me to learn it. I warned you of this a long time ago. Do not take my ability to confide in you for granted, regardless of how you may believe things have changed."

Things _had_ changed. And yet...not. She rubbed gingerly at her wrist after he freed it, hating him for hurting her. For not trusting her. For...wanting to protect her?

He pointed his wand at the letter and whispered, "_Incendium_." A moment later there was nothing but grey ash on the tabletop.

"I think," Severus said, "that now might be a excellent time to begin your Occlumency lessons. Take out your wand."

* * *

That first Occlumency lesson was not as terrible as she had feared, after having seen Potter's morose expression after one. As Severus had predicted, she had a natural aptitude for it. It was easy, really, silencing one's emotions, calming one's thoughts. Creating a dull, grey mask...she had been doing that for a long time—being what she was expected to be, as circumstances required. 

The most troubling thing was the sense of invasion. It was just so horribly...intimate. Funny, she thought, that it should bother her, considering that the man who was doing it was her lover. And yet...his mental touch, if one could call it that, was quite as brutal as his physical touch had ever been. More so.

The Dark Lord, he told her, was more subtle in his Legilimency. He looked for the emotions he expected to find; if they were absent, he probed deeper. Feeling the wrong things in his presence meant suspicion, torture or punishment: sometimes all three. Masking one's true feelings with grey nothingness would not be adequate for her in that situation. She would have to learn to create another layer of feelings. Feelings that would be inimical to her true sense of self. And yet she could not allow her revulsion to bleed through. She dreaded the practice of that.

Not tonight, he assured her. They had done enough for one day.

* * *

"Could you..." Sarah asked, as they lay curled together later. "Could you tell me a little more about your family? So I don't feel entirely lost tomorrow." When he did not reply immediately, she added, "If you don't want to, I won't ask again." 

"I'm hardly sure what you want to know."

Sarah shrugged faintly. "I don't know what you're willing to tell me. Mostly," she said, "I'd just like a better idea of what to expect. I'm not even sure what your uncle does for a living." A shack, behind what appeared to be a warehouse?

He snorted softly against her neck.

"In blunt terms, he's a smuggler. He uses a legitimate shipping business to cover his activities. But anything that couldn't pass a Ministry inspection of cargo is likely to come through Caius's warehouse. He's made a success of it. My grandfather didn't want to take on a full range of shipments. He specialized in Potions goods, with the occasional truly contraband ingredient. He was hoping that once I was trained, he could offer finished potions of types...not readily available elsewhere, shall we say. Caius, on the other hand, wanted me for his shop boy, in his own trade that he was branching into; I was meant later to be his right hand man. He gave me my first wand when I was seven, taught me most of the Dark Arts he knew. He's never forgiven me for leaving and going to Hogwarts."

"But...everybody goes to Hogwarts," she stammered. "Don't they?"

His grip on her tightened just a bit, and his voice turned bitter. "Not in Knockturn Alley, Sarah. It takes money to go to Hogwarts. And there's never enough of that, not for most of the children here. All a Hogwarts letter counts for here is proof that you have magical ability."

She tried to get her mind around that idea. Until this winter, it had never occurred to her what it might mean to be poor. The Weasleys were poor—everyone knew that, although Fred and George never seemed to let it bother them—but they had all come to Hogwarts.

"But...you said your uncle was successful..."

"He's one of the few who keeps what he earns for himself. Most of the shopkeepers here have patrons among the old Dark Wizarding families. Patrons who make sure they always stay just a little too far in debt to them to ever get out. Then there are the fines and the bribes to the Ministry. And the demand for Dark Arts supplies is not as great as you might think."

She quivered slightly between his arms. "Severian..."

"Of course Severian will go to Hogwarts," he said. "I didn't drag myself up this far to see my son fall back down again. Besides, by that time, your aunt will have lost control of your money."

"If she doesn't find some other way to keep it from me," she morosely; he sounded far too assured of her future wealth. She wondered who his grandfather's patron had been, but it seemed rude to ask. "Your grandfather made sure you went to Hogwarts," she said, hoping that the fact meant something good about the man.

He was silent for moment. "For his own self-interest," he said finally. "He was as happy to get me out of his sight as I was to go. And I hoped...he would be kinder to my mother if I wasn't there. Not that it mattered in the end."

Another silence. After what seemed too long a time, Sarah whispered, "What happened to her?"

He breathed into her hair for a little longer before he spoke. "She was never very strong. How she stood up to him about me at all, I have no idea. Why she didn't simply have done with me before I was born, I can't begin to guess. She worked out in Muggle London—a lot of girls do." When she shifted uneasily in his arms, he said, "Not working like that. Charwoman sort of thing. The Muggle hotels want fast workers to clean their rooms; that's short, easy work for a witch. Some are more infiltrated than others and have wizards among their guests as well. Whoever my father was, she must have met him there."

He went still again.

"I think it must have gotten worse after I went to school. Caius had always tried to protect her, shield her from the worst of his father's rages. But I had disappointed him. He wrote to me, just before Christmas, my first year at Hogwarts. I had planned to stay at school; I knew there was nothing extra for another train fare in the middle of the year. He..." At this, Severus took a deep breath. "He told me my mother was very ill. That her wasting sickness had gotten worse that winter. That she was _dying_.

"He offered to pay my train fare if I came home for Christmas. I didn't trust him. I didn't believe him. I knew he didn't want me at Hogwarts, and I was afraid it was all a ruse to get me to come home; then he would decline to pay my fare back again for the winter term. And so, of course, I refused."

Sarah could feel the tension his limbs, hear the tightness of his breath.

"In the middle of term, a letter came to the headmaster. Neither of them even wrote to me. She was dead...dead and buried the week before. I was not to come home until the end of the school year, my grandfather said. To this day I don't know if she truly died of her illness, or if somehow they managed, between them, to kill her. Perhaps both, in a way."

She recognized the note in his voice—the distant, irresolvable pain she felt when she had to speak of her own mother. She turned in his arms and slipped her own around him.

"I'm so sorry," she said. She could feel, from his breathing, that there would be no tears. She understood that, too. Some things hurt too much for weeping.

As if he had read her thoughts, he said, "I was caught crying once. Nosy berks snooping where they shouldn't have been. They made the rest of my school life hell."

Had most of his life been hell? she wondered.

"You've given me a piece of heaven, Sarah. Perhaps the only piece I'll ever have. Do you understand that?"

He was trying again, without saying it, to tell her that he loved her. Sarah nodded against his chest, her own heart in such unease that she said nothing more, asked no more questions. Nor did he speak again. Slowly, the silence attenuated itself into sleep.

* * *

**A/N:** My views on Snape's background were heavily influenced by Red Hen's essay "The Family Snape." I've put my own spin, however, on some of the theories she suggests. I've also taken the liberty of a slightly different slant on what Harry thought he saw when he broke into Snape's childhood memories. The only defense I can make is that Harry's perceptions are not known for being terribly reliable. 

As for my assertion that not all magical children go to Hogwarts, that idea arose from something Rowling said when asked whether, for instance, Stan Shunpike (the Knight Bus conductor) had gone to Hogwarts—what it boils down to is that she said that they don't necessarily. In the view I've taken, even if one assumes that tuition at Hogwarts is funded by the Ministry of Magic (of which I am by no means certain), the expenses of clothing and books and so forth might be beyond the very poor. Note that Arthur Weasley, whose family is considered poverty-stricken in the books, has what appears to be a reasonably good government job. The Weasleys certainly have no qualms about taking a holiday to Egypt when they have a windfall. Their primary poverty factor seems to be the fact that they have so many children. I guess what I'm trying to assert is that the Weasleys are not actually as poor as it is possible to be. But they do seem to be among the poorest students who actually go to Hogwarts.

Finally, I'd like to point everyone to mouse's drawing "First Day at Hogwarts," located in the Occlumency/Snape Portraits album of the Illusions section at Sycophant Hex. It perfectly captures my idea of the eleven-year-old Snape.

Up next—the long-awaited temporary change of CDs to Billy Joel. Can you guess the title of the next chapter now? Don't worry, we'll come back to _Phantom_ shortly.


	28. Ch 27: Uptown Girl

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** The world of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. A fact that will be made plain when _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ makes hundreds of fics (very probably including mine) obsolete. Just having what fun I can in the meanwhile.

**A/N:** Thanks again to my reviewers! Welcome aboard to BradyB66 and Bear Tagger. Welcome back to serena. And thanks for your continued support to Kay50, Darla, lucidity and cecelle.

You may notice that the title of this chapter isn't from _Phantom_. When I was in the planning stages of this fic, I reached this point in the story and realized what a vast social gulf I'd created between Sarah and Severus. The song from which this chapter's title is taken immediately began going through my head. That was before I had firmly decided to draw all the chapter titles from _Phantom of the Opera_, and I knew that when I reached this chapter, it was going to _have_ to bear this title. BTW, don't go listen to the song unless you want to laugh yourself silly! Trying to think about Severus Snape while listening to the way-too-perky Billy Joel...it's the path to madness. :)

* * *

**Chapter 27: Uptown Girl**

The Snapes lived above a little shop without a proper sign, but with a yellowing placard in the window that said 'Finest Ingredients—Wholesale.' No samples of said ingredients were visible from the street. Indeed, the shop appeared to have been abandoned.

They were met at the door by a man who looked enough like Devin that they must be brothers, although his hair was a mousy brown and his face broader and less handsome. _Nicholas Crabbe_, he introduced himself to Sarah as she took off her veil. He went ahead of them up the stairs to the flat on the first floor.

She was not expecting much, but the place was surprisingly cozy. A feminine hand with a sense of taste had arranged these rooms. The female in question emerged from the kitchen at that moment with a large platter of ham.

"Come in, come in," she beckoned, then set herself about easing the platter into place on the generously loaded table. When she was satisfied with the arrangement, she turned, wiping her hands on her large white apron. "Caius!" she called into the next room, "our guests are here. It's good to see you, Severus. And Miss...?"

"Sarah," Sarah supplied quickly. Severus had warned her to not volunteer her surname (past or present) to anyone.

The woman's steel-grey eyes studied her sharply, though not unkindly.

"Miriam Snape," she said, extending a hand to the younger woman. She was a little past middle life, with greying hair wound around her head in a braid which peeked from under the edges of a sensibly short hat. She had a face that was pleasant rather than fair, and the beginnings her wrinkles hinted that they would fall into graceful lines in her old age. "Do sit down," she requested. "We're ready to eat. No sense in letting the food go cold. It never tastes the same, charmed warm again. Caius!"

"I'm here, woman," said Caius, lumbering into the room, as Severus pulled out a chair for Sarah. She sat quickly, wondering how her appetite would fare with this man at the table. "Well, Severus, I see you brought the little moll."

Miriam laughed, a sound that was at once hearty and musical.

"A moll? Have you misplaced your eyes, Caius Snape? Or maybe you don't do business enough these days with the right sorts of people." Miriam sat at end of the table nearest the kitchen. "Look at how she sits. How she holds herself."

Sarah squirmed inwardly as every eye in the room turn toward her.

"That's never a street girl. That's _quality_."

Caius grunted as he pulled out his own chair at the other end of the table. "Well," he allowed, "Severus said she was his apprentice."

"She _is_ my apprentice," Severus said, with a hint of sullenness.

With the two Crabbes seated opposite her and Severus, and Miriam on her left hand, Sarah felt rather overwhelmed. Caius started passing the serving dishes around the table.

"You've met Miriam, my wife," he said, nodding in her direction. "These are her boys, Nick and Devin Crabbe." Each man bobbed his head as his step-father introduced him.

The ham was very good, but Sarah could only pick at it, with the constant barrage of stares that came her way as everyone began silently to eat. She was definitely not accustomed to this sort of attention.

"She must be something special, eh, Sev?" Devin said. She felt the man's boot touch her ankle under the table, and she drew her feet back hastily. "How long's it been since you took an apprentice?"

Nick snorted, almost losing a mouthful of food.

"Nicholas!" Miriam cautioned. But she was studying Sarah herself, with a shrewd expression.

Caius said, "Severus's never had a girl apprentice, what I've heard tell of." The look in his eyes, a combination of envy and disdain, told her that he plainly believed that his nephew was bedding her, apprentice or no.

"Severus has never brought anyone to dinner here before, moll _or_ apprentice," Miriam said. She took a sip from her goblet. "I do believe that he intends to marry her. If he hasn't already," she added, as she saw Sarah startle.

Sarah turned an anxious look on Severus. But he remained bent intently over his plate, his hair effectively concealing his expression.

"Trust Mum to get to the heart of things," said Devin.

Nick was gaping. "What kind of potion did you have to give her?"

"You couldn't even afford the ingredients," Severus said silkily, lifting his head; his smirk was now clearly visible.

"She's a child!" Caius spluttered.

"Hmmm," said Miriam. "Such a crime, is it, for a man to marry a woman some fifteen years his junior?"

Devin and Nick hooted with sudden laughter. From the way Caius was glaring, it was obvious the joke was at his expense.

"She can't be more than twenty." He glowered. Sarah schooled her expression to show nothing. What the man would say if he knew she was still a student was something she did not care to know.

"You're just envious, Pop," Devin said.

Miriam was smirking intently at him down the length of the table, swirling her goblet with an air that was almost comically menacing.

Caius subsided for moment, devouring his food as if he were imagining that it was his disrespectful family.

"You won't have my blessing on bestowing her with the family name, if that's what you mean to do," he commented after a few bites.

"_I have not asked your blessing for anything_."

"Severus..." Miriam warned quietly.

"And what's her family say to this?" Caius went on, lower and more threatening. "If she _is_ quality, they'll not like her taking up with the likes of you. You've been real slow to tell her family name, Severus. What're you playing at?"

"Her family name is Darkglass." Severus dropped that information like a heavy stone into a pond; it did not fail to set off ripples.

Devin whistled low. Nick stopped chewing with his mouth partway open. A smile played around Miriam lips, and she murmured, "Quality indeed."

"I thought most of them'ed died out," Nick commented, upon hastily swallowing.

"They had," Caius said warily. "Last one I knew of went to Azkaban, I thought, some ten years ago. But I don't recall that he was among the ones as broke out this winter." He studied her calculatingly, as if she knew some secret he would like to hear.

"He didn't go to Azkaban," Sarah said grimly. "The Aurors killed him."

"Well, well." Caius Snape's beetle-black eyes glittered, and he turned them on Severus. "That's a cat of a different color, isn't it? I suppose _he_ gave her to you?"

From the sudden dead silence in the room, it was clear that not one person at the table had any doubts to whom Caius was referring. Nor, as Sarah took in the looks on the others' faces, was there any question that every one of them knew that Severus was a Death Eater.

"No," he replied bluntly.

"He is back though, isn't he? We've heard...things." Caius's voice was low and hoarse.

As she watched Severus's eyes sweep over his family, she felt a sudden chill. For all their jibes and jokes and pettiness, they had just been reminded who held the most power in this room.

"Yes." He stabbed another piece of ham with his fork.

Sarah happened to glance over at Miriam. The woman's lips were a thin line, not unlike McGonagall's when she was angry, although Miriam did not seem angry, exactly. Worried was closer, perhaps.

"Y'think things'll get better 'round here?" Nick asked.

Sarah wondered what it meant that not a single person answered.

* * *

"Come help me with the pudding, Sarah," Miriam said, after this silence had dragged on a while, broken only by the clink of silverware. Grateful for the least reprieve, Sarah followed her hostess into the kitchen. 

"There now, let's have a proper look at you." The woman turned and held her at arm's length; her astute eyes went from Sarah's hair to her toes and back again. "Tell me, _has_ he married you?"

"Yes," Sarah said, then felt compelled to add hastily, "But I _am_ his apprentice."

"Why should I doubt that?" Miriam asked. "Masters do marry their apprentices from time to time. I suppose that might be discouraged at Hogwarts, though, might'nt it? I confess I never thought I'd see Severus marry." She was still studying Sarah carefully. She caught the lower corners of Sarah's blouse, spread them out and pushed them back. "What are you, four months gone?"

Sarah's heart did a terrific flip-flop. "Does it show so much?" she gasped, smoothing her hands down her blouse. She had planned to go to Madame Pomfrey for the magical girdle after the holiday, but now it appeared that her caution was too late. "No one is supposed to know."

"Hmm, then you'll be taking Carry-Close, won't you? Five months then?"

Sarah's mouth gaped open. "Yes. Is it horribly obvious?" she asked, distraught. The subtle curve of her stomach seemed suddenly enormous.

"Never fear, girl." Miriam laid a hand on the anxious arm with which Sarah was measuring herself. "I do what I can for the girls around here, so I know what to look for. Only someone with the eyes to see it or a reason to think it would guess about you yet. But let me warn you, if you're trying to keep this a secret," her smile turned solemn, "your eyes will betray you before your belly ever will. I've seen already how you look at him—a woman only looks like that at the father of her child."

Sarah found a chair and sat down trembling, while Miriam bent to take a pitcher from the cold cupboard. She watched the older woman pour cream into a stone bowl and set a whisk to beating it. Then she drew up a tall stool and perched on it to keep one eye on the whisk and the other on Sarah.

"If you're willing to tell me, I'd like to know the truth. Did he marry you before or after he found out about that?" She pointed.

Sarah felt her face flush. "After," she admitted. "But I didn't make him, if that's what you're thinking." She sensed that somehow this aunt-by-marriage felt more protective of Severus than his uncle did. "He insisted on it. I didn't even want to..."

"Well, you _have_ brought your family rather _down_ in the world by it, haven't you?" It was first truly sharp thing that Miriam had said to her.

Sarah found herself almost desperate to regain the woman's goodwill. "I never even thought of that! I didn't..."

"You didn't know," Miriam concluded, with half a sigh, the edge going off her voice, to be replaced with resignation. "Not until he brought you here."

"He's a _teacher_," Sarah said lamely. "No one would expect..."

"No, they wouldn't. He's worked hard for that, you know. A respectable profession. More than most lads here could ever aspire to, much less the grandson of a supplier. Born on the wrong side of the blankets to boot." She fixed Sarah with a hard look, as if to ascertain whether she had told the young woman something else she did not know. "He wanted out of here, more than most can even imagine. Enough to break with Caius and side with the old man. As if Marcus Snape ever had anything but a coarse word for the boy until he discovered he might be worth something to him."

"He sent him to Hogwarts," Sarah said, still wanting to believe that someone had once been kind to him.

Miriam shrugged. "Severus was bright. Everybody knew it. Too bright to waste his talents keeping ledgers and hiding things from Ministry inspectors, the way Caius wanted. The Malfoys had become Marcus's chief patrons. Old Mister Malfoy offered to sponsor Severus to Hogwarts, when his letter came. It was understood, of course, that a good part of the extra profits he'd bring, once he was trained, would spill over into the Malfoys' hands."

Sarah stiffened slightly. She had dismissed Draco's assertions of Professor Snape's obligations to the Malfoy family as simply more of the brat's arrogant bluster. Apparently not.

"I don't know if he ever really believed that would content him," Miriam went on. "But at school he found bigger fish to fry. Malfoy's son was already there, and a prefect in Slytherin, and he drew Severus into his circle, probably almost as a slave to start with, from what I could make out at the time. But even after Lucius left Hogwarts, Severus was mixed up with the same crowd, all of them eager to find a place under the new power that was rising." Miriam was frowning slightly now.

"And he found one," Sarah murmured, trying to hide a shudder.

"Yes. You knew about that?" Miriam raised her eyebrows.

"I...found out."

"That wasn't what drew you in, then?" She seemed to be asking something more than her words. Then she jumped. "Laws, that'll be butter soon!" She stopped the whisk and tasted the whipped cream. "Whew, just in time. Suppose you get the cake; it's there in the right-hand cupboard."

Sarah brought the tall sponge cake to the table where Miriam was working, and watched as the woman spooned the stiff cream over it.

"He found a good position, there at Hogwarts, in the end," Miriam commented as she worked, still the hint of a hidden meaning in her voice. She glanced warily at Sarah. "Don't you think?"

"Yes," Sarah said, "it is." She was not sure how Miriam could possibly know that Severus's loyalties had changed. Perhaps she didn't. Perhaps she only meant that teaching at Hogwarts was preferable to a career of torture and murder. And if she _did_ know where Severus's loyalties truly lay... "If it _is_ the end."

"Does anything ever really end?" Miriam puffed out a sigh. "We all just muddle along the best we can, don't we?"

Sarah nodded, not entirely set at ease by that response. She wondered if she had only imagined Miriam's subtle hints.

There was a shout from the other room. Caius. "It's been long enough, had'nit?"

Miriam picked up the plate with the cake. "If you're ever in trouble, Sarah, come to me. Understand?"

"Thank you," Sarah said. She moved to hold open the door into the dining room.

* * *

The talk appeared to have turned to Quidditch while they were in the kitchen. Devin and Nick were debating the relative merits of the Wimbourne Wasps' new and former Keepers. The new Keeper, Ian Pritchard, had been on the Slytherin team (Sarah vaguely remembered him from her first couple of years), and Severus kept taking Nick's side in the debate, pointing out the young man's favored tactics and describing incidents in Hogswarts games of years gone by. Caius, fortified by the cake, started in on the differences between amateur and professional players, seeming bent on proving that Pritchard's record at Hogwarts meant nothing in the real sporting world. It was a side of Severus she had not seen since the afternoon of their wedding (and, under the circumstances, she had not taken it seriously), and she was a little disconcerted. She was thankful that he talked potions to her. 

"You must have seen him play," Nick appealed to her. "What do you think?"

"I..." Sarah stammered. _Well, the truth?_ "I honestly never cared that much for Quidditch." She was met with blank stares from the Crabbes, a superior look from Caius, and an amused smirk from Miriam. She didn't dare glance at Severus. "But really," she went on, "Slytherin won the House Cup every year he was on the team, didn't they? That ought to count for something."

"Codswallop," Caius said, around a mouthful of cake. "Whad'ya ask her for?"

"Oh, and can you tell me how many League players have _not_ played first at Hogwarts?" Severus asked.

"Danny O'Hearn," Devin popped up.

Sarah sank lower in her chair, feeling foolish, while the debate raged on. Her eyes were glazing over by the time Miriam rescued her: "Help me with the wash-up."

* * *

Sarah felt even more foolish as she found herself almost useless in facing the task. Miriam had to teach her the appropriate dishwashing charms for dealing with an entire sinkful of dishes. 

"I'm so sorry," Sarah said, as a couple of the plates bumped together a bit too hard and one broke. "_Reparo!_" The broken bits came together again, to her relief. "I feel so stupid."

"What, because you've never washed dishes? That's spoiled, not stupid." Miriam favored her with a sardonic smile. "And you didn't spoil yourself, now did you?"

"I've never known any different," Sarah said sheepishly.

"Course not. But so long as you're willing to learn..."

"Well, I don't imagine I'll have house-elves to look after me my whole life. I mean, I never thought that, exactly." Although, really, she had never thought much about it. Her fantasies of meeting some nice young wizard and settling down to run a Potions shop together had never gone into such nitty-gritty details as who would wash the dishes.

"You never had any reason to think about it," Miriam said pragmatically, with a shrug.

Sarah was not sure what to reply—_no, I haven't_, felt redundant—and so they lapsed into silence for the moment.

"Can I ask you something?" Sarah said, after a bit.

"Certainly," Miriam said, sending the dried dishes, one by one, to rest in the cupboard.

"It's kind of..." Sarah blushed and grimaced at once. "Why would a witch...sell herself? To wizards, I mean? Are people _that_ poor here?"

Miriam studied her. "Terrible to think of, is it? And for the most part, a woman does have to be very desperate to consider earning her bread that way. But a lot of the girls down there are Squibs, with no other way to make a living in this world, nor perhaps in the Muggle world, if they felt able to leave this one. But you...why the disguise? Caius couldn't help noticing," she shot a derisive glance in the direction of the other room, "that you're trying to dress the part. Though as I said before, you aren't especially convincing at it."

"Well..." Sarah said, "Severus didn't think I could walk through Knockturn Alley as myself without attracting attention." _Even with my mother's spell_.

"Hmmm, I suppose he was right about that," Miriam conceded.

"And like you also said, these sorts of things are frowned on at Hogwarts. If anyone carried tales..."

"I see," Miriam said, and the way she raised her eyebrows made Sarah wonder if, in fact, she had just given away the whole truth to this woman.

"Ought I to stay inside the whole week?" she asked, reluctant to accept that advice, even if it were given. "I _do_ wear a veil when we go out, so as not to be recognized."

Miriam spent a moment in thought. "Well, you're not likely to be questioned with Severus there to protect you. Still, you might try to look a little more beaten down, if you can."

Sarah let her shoulders droop, more in frustration than as an experiment. But Miriam laughed. "Keep working on it. And come back again before you leave."

"What about Caius?" Sarah asked, lowering her voice. As she did so, the already half-noticed sound of an increase in volume in the other room became very apparent. She winced. "I don't think Severus will come back here again, and I don't think he'll let me go anywhere without him. Especially if Caius is here."

"Why—can't you come when Caius isn't here?" Miriam said, as if it were obvious. "This may be the first time in five years that Severus has been in the same room with his uncle, but he knows how to show up here for a decent meal now and again."

"I'll try," Sarah said, wishing she could promise.

"We're going," Severus announced from the doorway into the dining room. The arguing had stopped, but his face was sour.

"Thank you, Miriam," Sarah bid farewell, adding, "_Aunt_ Miriam."

The elder Mrs. Snape returned the smile. "I enjoyed it, Sarah. Fare you well. And you, Severus."

"Goodbye, Miriam," he said, with only a hint of gruffness. "_Now_, Sarah."

He led her out, while Caius glowered. "One of these days, Severus, somebody'll notice just how far you've got above yourself," he barked. He came to the upstairs door as they went down the stairs. "Don't say I didn't warn you when you get lopped off at the neck." He made a hissing sound that finished with a click. "Don't say I didn't..." the rest of his advice was cut off as Severus closed the door that had let them out into the street.

* * *

They made their way back toward the flat in the growing twilight. The daylight denizens of Knockturn Alley were fading indoors, while the nighttime dwellers oozed slowly out and about their own business. Sarah clung closer to Severus's side. 

Almost everyone still on the street had their wands out, as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. Those who didn't display wands gave off the impression that you wouldn't want to mess with them, regardless. Severus did not have his wand out, although she noticed, as they started back, that he had slipped it into his sleeve for quick retrieval. She took a similar precaution.

"You let him intimidate you," Severus murmured harshly under his breath.

It took her a moment to realize that he was referring to Caius.

"He must have given you lessons in that," Sarah quipped softly, not willing to be criticized for her failure to do whatever it was he had expected.

"I didn't think it worked on you any longer."

"I don't know him as well as I know you. Besides, you said to be nice. Did you count on me behaving like a Gryffindor?"

"Shhh," he silenced her.

Of course, that was not a good name to utter here.

Sarah glanced around, wondering who might have heard, but the veil was becoming almost impossible to see through in the increasing darkness. The street lamps were few and far between, and only a little light spilled out of a very few windows. Deciding that her face was safe enough from recognition in the dimness, she slipped the veil down. A sudden movement caught the corner of her eye and she peered in alarm over her shoulder. A shape with a seemingly odd limb configuration under its cloak was crossing the street behind them. She watched, half in horrified curiosity, half in fear of sudden attack.

It was not from behind that the danger came, however. Sarah's arm was jolted when her guide abruptly stopped, just as a smooth, cultured voice said, "Why, good evening, Severus."

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, it's been a while since I gave y'all an honest-to-goodness cliffhanger. Enjoy. -_grins evilly-_

I've decided not to put the _Phantom_ CD back in quite yet. I'm going to take this opportunity to introduce you to the Broadway Musical version of _The Scarlet Pimpernel_. The music isn't as splendid as _Phantom_, of course, but it's still rather nice. I've put up an mp3 of the particular track from which I'm going to be drawing the next couple of chapter titles. It's Chauvelin's primary solo, "Falcon in the Dive," a very Snape-worthy song. You can download the file from my homepage.

I've been in love with the story of the Scarlet Pimpernel ever since I saw the excellent made-for-TV movie back in the early 80s. I truly recommend it, if you're able to lay hands on it. It stars Jane Seymour as the lovely Marguerite, and the gorgeous and talented (but sadly scarcely-known) Anthony Andrews as Percy Blakeney (the Scarlet Pimpernel). The great Sir Ian McKellan (much younger and hardly recognizable without his bushy beard) appears as the very Snape-ish Chauvelin.

Once you've seen that movie and developed the proper appreciation for Anthony Andrews, I recommend checking out the old BBC Complete Works of Shakespeare version of _Romeo and Juliet_. It should be available at just about any library. You'll get to see Anthony Andrews as Mercutio fence to the death with a very young Alan Rickman as Tybalt, both of them, of course, in tights. Bring hankies to catch the drool, ladies!

The next couple of chapters are going to take us back to Prozac-land. Brace yourselves.


	29. Ch28: Here in Hell the Blood Runs Deeper

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I solemnly swear that I am writing this story to please myself, and not with the intention of infringing on anyone's copyright. Joanne owns it (and the people she's sold rights to). She gets (and deserves) all the dough.

**A/N:** You reviewers are so great! And so many new people—you don't know how that thrills me. So, many thanks to Aiden2, cecelle, Kay50, BradyB66, serena, Lady Knight19, Darla, Fluffy 928, Lady Whitehart and lucidity. I hope you all still love me after this chapter. Well, maybe if you take enough Valium first.

I guess I just _had_ to attempt to beat Joanne to the punch, if she's going to try to throw something more at us to make us stop loving Severus. Maybe she intended that making him a former Death Eater would do that already. Maybe after this chapter, you'll think that was enough, if we're forced to actually think about what-all that entails. Anyway, we are definitely moving into darker territory than we've yet been in. HUGE kudos to lucidity and cecelle for acting as my guinea pigs on this chapter!

I'm giving a warning flag for non-con-sex on this chapter—just a caution. No, Sarah is not the victim. In fact, the incident happened in the past and is only being reported. It is not graphically described. However, I still think that it might be too strong for some readers. _I_ find it kind of squicky, even as the author! So, if you think that there _might_ be things in Severus Snape's past that you couldn't endure hearing about, you might want to just skip the last scene of this chapter (from the point where Severus comes back to the flat after leaving earlier).

Some of you have already guessed who is about to make an appearance here! Was it _that_ transparent:)

* * *

**Chapter 28: Here in Hell, the Blood Runs Deeper**

Sarah turned her head and saw a tall, aristocratic man with pale eyes and pale hair. Even though she scarcely remembered the face from the one time she'd met the man as a child, she had spent far too much time of late with his son not to recognize Mr. Malfoy.

"Good evening, Lucius," Severus answered silkily, although she felt his arm tighten.

Sarah nearly panicked, wondering whether it was more imperative to keep her face hidden, or if it would draw even more attention to her if she tried to replace the veil now. She lowered her chin toward Severus's arm, praying that the dark was enough.

"Homesick for your old haunts?" Lucius Malfoy asked, with a hint of mockery.

"Not particularly. Although, as you well know, certain things can be obtained here that can be obtained nowhere else."

"Yes, there are indeed." Malfoy's gaze took in Snape's female companion with considerable interest. "As a matter of fact, I had some plans myself, after I attended to a little business."

"Enjoy your evening, then. I won't keep you," Severus said, dipping his head and moving as if to go around the man.

"Now, now, nothing so urgent that I don't have a moment to pass the time of day. Share a little...information."

"Certain information should not be shared on the street, Lucius. Or with...witnesses." A rapid movement of his eyes indicated Sarah. "If you have something to tell me, I suggest we go elsewhere."

"No, I suppose we can't be too cautious, can we? You wouldn't believe what Draco was trying to tell me the other night, Severus. You know, he came home for a little extra tutoring over the holiday."

"So he mentioned."

"Ah yes, well, he somehow got the idea this past term that you had taken a special interest in another of your students. A certain young lady outside our House."

Sarah heart was pounding in her throat. She was sure the man must be able to hear it. It was so strong a sensation that it was hard to feel, above it, the answering pulses in Severus's side.

"I do teach students from all four Houses," Severus pointed out laconically. "At this time of year, with exams approaching, I frequently am forced to spend additional time with my N.E.W.T. students. I'm sure that Draco will discover for himself in the next two years that N.E.W.T. preparation is more than merely a matter of studying books."

"Yes, well, I did have to chide him for making such a foolish suggestion. Indeed, I found the idea of you carrying on with a student rather amusingly absurd. Although you always have preferred them young, haven't you?" He shot another look at Sarah.

"I'm sure you're aware," Severus said frostily, "as I am, that one's private tastes are best indulged far away from one's public life."

"How very true," Malfoy allowed indolently. "And, of course, no young lady at Hogwarts would ever dream of coming here."

_He's guessing, he only guessing. He can't possibly know. He's just trying to make Severus uncomfortable_.

_He's doing a damn good job of it, isn't he?_

"The name he gave me was interesting, though," Malfoy went on. "You see, he said that the girl had made her loyalties plain to him. Even hinted that she was already on her way to a position of power."

Sarah's heart sank, remembering her horrible—and now clearly foolish—words to Draco.

"Naturally, it seemed worthwhile to investigate such a claim. After all, if she was lying, I'm sure that someone would want to be sure that she was punished for it. And if not, well, it interested me. I'm sure you remember that, in December, Franklin Nott confirmed before...well, before all of us that his brother-in-law, Malcolm Darkglass, had died for the cause. I had a little chat with him the other night. It seems he did, indeed, have a niece by the name of...Sarah, was it? But that she had been spirited away by her mother and never seen by the family since. He'd hardly thought of the girl in years, he said. And yet this girl was insisting to Draco that she was already...known by the right people." Malfoy had been fingering the silver snake's head of his cane while he said all this, but now he stopped and looked sharply at Severus. "I'm sure the girl is one of your advanced students. Has she said anything to you?"

Severus's lip curled. "Miss Darkglass is working on a particularly difficult N.E.W.T. project, Lucius—the Wolfsbane Potion. Consequently, I have seen more of her this term than usual, which may be where Draco got his foolish notions. However, she has not confided anything to me, much less her loyalties. In fact, she's in Gryffindor House, as I recall."

"So Draco said. And yet, Severus, I'm sure you haven't forgotten that the Wolfsbane Potion was originally a Dark potion. I wonder why she would choose that? It all seems rather...odd. Ah, well." Lucius shrugged. "I daresay that we shall hear more of her, when she leaves Hogwarts, if she does have the contacts she implied."

"I daresay we shall," Severus said dryly.

Lucius began to turn, as if to go, then a small and wicked smile bent his lips. He looked pointedly at Sarah; she did not like the expression on his face at all.

"I wonder, Severus...would you be interested in sharing your little slapper, there, once I've finished my business? A bit of a ménage a trois? For old time's sake?"

_Old time's sake! _Sarah could not stop her fingers from digging sharply into Severus's arm. Although it wasn't so much the thought of the past that disturbed her at this moment—she would let herself feel ill about that later—as the possibility that, in order to maintain her disguise, Severus (and therefore she) might be forced to comply with Malfoy's request.

Lucius smirked at the look of alarm on Sarah's face, and although he addressed his words to Severus, he kept on watching her. "If you didn't pay her enough for it, old boy, I'm sure my purse can satisfy any objections she might have."

"Perhaps it would satisfy hers," Severus said coldly, "but not mine. Indeed, seeing as my tastes don't run that way, I think you must be remembering some other of our...youthful companions. I won't keep you from your business any longer, Lucius. Goodnight." And with that, he steered Sarah around the man and on down the street.

Lucius Malfoy's laughter echoed behind them.

* * *

"Why did you have your veil off?" Back in the flat, Severus was pacing, and angry. 

"I couldn't see. It was dark. I never imagined that..."

"When you slip up, you fall! Now Lucius Malfoy has a very good idea what is going on, even if he didn't recognize you outright. And of all people, he is one that I least want to provoke unnecessarily."

"Well, you could have done what he suggested, out there, if you're so fixed on not provoking him." She was more glad than she could say that he had not, but it had been a terrible risk, it seemed to her. "Wouldn't that have proven to him that he was wrong?"

"Damn it, I won't have him touching you! How could you even think so? Or did you find his little offer more interesting than you let on?" He was sneering nastily at her.

"No! But was he lying, or were you?"

"What?"

Sarah had known she was going to regret that the very moment it popped out.

"Nothing. Just...nothing."

"Sarah, you're prying into matters you ought not to know," he said warningly.

"No, I'm not. I said, 'nothing,' didn't I?" She raised her voice.

"You are thinking about it." He brought his wrists to his temples. "You are going to think about it until it eats us both alive."

"How can I _not_ think about it?" Sarah protested.

"Because it has nothing to do with you!" He slashed his hands down and apart. "It's over. It's done. I can't change it, Sarah. And if you begin trying to make me believe that I can, or that I should, I shall end a raving madman. And I _refuse_ to let you do that to me," he said, so threateningly that she believed for a moment that she might not walk out of the flat alive.

She retreated to the end of the bed in the darkened bedroom and brought her feet up. It was a bit harder to huddle herself close than it used to be. She could feel her stomach resisting the pressure of her thighs.

"Iknow you can't change the past," she said, as he came to the door, occluding the light from the kitchen. "_I_ just need to find a way to live with it. And that's difficult when I'm not even sure what 'it' is. Just horrible hints. Guesses."

"Stop attempting to guess! You already know more than I would prefer. If you had any idea... Sarah, you don't want to know any more, I promise you."

She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "I _know_ I don't want to know. That's just...that doesn't come into it, does it? What I want? I can't rearrange the universe with my wishes. Why should I expect you to?" She sighed, letting her head drop. "I guess, I just want it _said_. So it'll be there, where I can ignore it and know what I'm ignoring. So it can't slide between us out of nowhere, like a ghost. Or ghosts."

He took two steps and sat down hard on the side of the bed, a hand to his forehead. "So, merely to satisfy _your_ foolish impulses, your damned insatiable Gryffindor _curiosity_, you mean for me to dredge up thoughts that I've long since buried. Thoughts I intend to remain buried. Thoughts that are, as I said before, _absolutely none of your business_."

"Fine then! Keep your damn thoughts buried!" Sarah slid to the far edge of the bed and lay on her side, still huddled up, with her back to him. It was his side of the bed, which annoyed her all the more. He was sitting on her side.

Less than a minute of this was obviously too much for him. He stood up and lifted his cloak from the chair where he'd dropped it.

"Where are you going?" she asked, sitting up and turning.

The thing she feared most must be there quite plainly in her eyes. And he saw it. Clearly it disgusted him. In the shadows, his face twisted with rancor. "Out!" he said brusquely. With a swirl of his cloak and the slamming of the outside door, he was gone.

* * *

If he was going to let himself go at...whatever, so was she. She growled and pounded pillows and stomped on one of his dirty socks that somehow hadn't made it into the corner last night. She kicked it there. 

Would she ever see him again? Did she want to? He deserved to be hexed from behind in the dark out there and then...what? Robbed? That would be a good one. Then they would both be penniless and she'd have no way at all to get back to Hogwarts unless she could work herself up to Apparating. Killed then? Admittedly, that would be no better for her situation, but at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing that he'd never...what? Never bring anyone else up to this room? Never take another point from Gryffindor? Never disagree with her about their son? If Severian _was_ his only son. _Damn it!_ She threw the pillows across the room, one after the other. _When did I become so jealous?_

Her father had stormed out more than once in those last couple of years, leaving her mother weeping. He'd always come back. It had frightened her at first, but she'd soon learned. _I couldn't leave my Sarah_, he'd told her once, when he'd come in, not so late as usual, and found his little girl crying. He'd tucked the covers around her, his robes smelling of strange things, and promised her he'd always come back.

_Severus will come back_. Surreptitiously, although no one could see her, she wiped at her cheeks, where a slow, steady stream of tears had started to fall. Yes, he would. Whether she wanted him to or not. If only to tell _her_ to get out. No, somehow she couldn't believe he would do that, foolish as it probably was to think so.

_I want him to come back_. She felt as if something inside her was starving in agony. _Right now!_

And do what? Apologize? He'd sooner lie dead at her feet than apologize to her. Damnable man!

She'd be better off without him, wouldn't she? Better if he _did_ leave for good and take his horrible, haunting past with him. Then that evil couldn't touch Severian, couldn't hurt him, couldn't corrupt him...

Merlin's balls, she sounded like her mother!

_My mother was right to take me. She was trying to protect me and I love her for it. To hell with fooling Voldemort! To hell with pretending to be a horrible person just so I can have him! To hell with Dumbledore's scheming!_

The need to do something (or go mad) drove her to the kitchen, where she found parchment and ink in a drawer. She sat at the table and began to write, trying to keep her tears from falling on the page.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_ (dear, like hell!)

_I have come to the conclusion that I will not be able to help you and Sev_ (cross that out!) _Professor Snape in your plot against Lord V_ (damn, I don't even dare to write it, so follow that with a long dash) _—. Whatever you hoped for, this relationship is not working._ (that's so damned short, but what else can I say?)

_Deepest regrets, Sarah_ (damn, I won't write Darkglass and I won't write Snape, so just leave it; he'll know perfectly well who it's from)

As she folded it up, it occurred to her that didn't have any money for an owl. Even assuming that an owl could find Professor Dumbledore, since he was in hiding from the Ministry. Although owls' abilities were legendary. Still, without even two Knuts to rub together, it was rather moot. And she knew no one here she could borrow money from. Unless, maybe, Miriam. _Oh, yes, that'll go over well. I'm leaving your nephew; can I borrow enough to send an owl post to my former headmaster, who is now a criminal?_

For that matter, where could she go? Could she beg Aunt Portia to take her back? Could she bear, even if Portia agreed, to hear 'I told you so' every livelong day for the rest of her life? No N.E.W.T.s, no apprenticeship.

Would she have to sell herself in the street here, just to escape from Knockturn Alley?

Sarah crumpled the folded parchment, threw it in the bin, and threw herself onto the dark bed, weeping. Was this how desperate her mother had felt, with no escape?

_Why doesn't he come back? So I can yell at him, at least._

"I hate you, Severus Snape," she whispered vehemently, curled up again on her side. "I hate you I hate you I hate you. Come back here so I can tell you that I hate you!" He could have left her alone. From the very start. That was what he should have done, wasn't it? He hadn't resisted when...when she had kept pushing and pushing and daring him. That was what it amounted to, wasn't it? He had kept giving her the chance to leave, the chance to save him from temptation...

_That was a temptation he provoked himself! Calling me down for a detention when he knew that..._

She could have left. And she hadn't wanted to.

_I could have taken the fucking potion, and gone on my way. If I'd known that Snape wasn't about to let me walk away with his own bastard son. If I'd known **that**..._

She felt the subtle curve of her abdomen. She couldn't have done it. She had known perfectly well the risk she was taking, lying with him half the nights in every week for a month. She wasn't stupid. She could have figured out some precaution. But she hadn't. She'd been tempting Fate, saying 'Go ahead, throw a child at me, too, while you're at it!" And knowing that, more than anything, she wanted someone to love as much as she had once believed herself to be loved. Someone she wouldn't abandon as she had been abandoned. Someone she could hold up—in the face of Fate, of her father, of her mother—and say 'This is what I accomplished, in spite of you.'

She hadn't counted on feeling anything more than a fleeting passion for the man from whose seed that child had sprung. She hadn't counted on caring...

_God, it hurt so much to care!_

Could Severian feel it? she wondered abruptly. It was almost a physical pain, even though it had arisen in her soul. Could he possibly be safe from that, locked in her womb? She felt, or thought she did, that little flicker of life inside. In sudden anxiety she tried to calm herself, to still her weeping, to quiet the agony in her heart. _Please come back, Severus_, she pleaded. _I won't cry when you're here. I won't feel things it isn't safe to feel. You've taught me that, damn you_.

He'll come back.

Somehow it will be all right.

I don't know how.

It just will.

* * *

She woke at sound of footsteps and a rough jostling against the mattress. 

"Severus?" She called light into the tip of her wand, not wanting to make a mistake in this place.

"Yes," he replied. It was Severus, although he was, in some way she could not yet define, not himself. He knelt on the bed and she smelled the sharpness of whisky on him.

"You're _drunk_," she said.

"Very," he answered. Although he really didn't look it. There was only the slightest hint that his usual self-possession was not spot-on.

"You didn't even _enjoy_ it," she accused. She had some idea how she would have dealt with a stumbling, laughing, dead-drunk husband. This booze-soaked stone-cold man was nearly frightening in his potential to do something unexpected.

"Hate the stuff." His words were just slightly slurred. "So hard to control. But it stops...thoughts...when nothing else will." She wasn't sure if he collapsed or if he let himself fall sideways onto the bed.

"Gads, you're going to regret this tomorrow."

"Potions," he choked out.

"I don't know the instructions for a hangover potion or for Sober-Up, not by memory."

"Don't want to be sober yet." He tried to sit up again and groaned, wincing at the light of her wand. "Turn that damned thing off!"

He grabbed her wand hand. She whispered, "_Nox!_" before he could break her fingers.

"You think I was with Malfoy, don't you?" he growled low.

"I don't know where you were. Obviously in a pub, pouring poison down your throat." She could hardly see him. He must have put out the light in the kitchen. As the glare of her wand faded from her eyes, there was only a little pale light coming in the windows—moonlight, maybe, or the weird skyward glow of the lights in Muggle London.

"I know everything about poisons. If I wanted..."

"Okay, I didn't mean that. But it was stupid to drink yourself...stupid."

He reacted badly to this assertion. Moving quicker than she would have predicted, given his state, he rolled over and pinned her down.

"Who drove me to it? Prying!" he spat (unpleasantly, into her face). "Bringing up things that..." He let his head sink onto the mattress next to her own, and she felt his guts clench. She sincerely hoped he wouldn't throw up on her. "It didn't work. Everything fades...not that."

"Severus," she whispered, troubled. She was wrapped in such a tangle of her own guilt and anger at him that she couldn't sort it out. "I didn't mean to...I didn't know you felt..."

"I don't feel anything, do I?" he sneered. He was face to face with her again, his hair curtaining out the light, his fingers clenching hard around the wrist of her wand hand. "So convenient. Prevents things from blowing up."

Sarah found, distressingly, no words. She could only stare up at the shadows of his face in the darkness and wonder how her simple plea for the truth could have set such agony loose.

"You had to know, didn't you? Well, then, here's a memory. Just for you, Sarah." The whisper was vicious, but his head went down to the mattress again, his hair brushing ticklingly across her face, and again he convulsed slightly. "We had never...it wasn't on the program...before that. All of them knew by then...what to expect...when we came. Knew they were already dead when...came in the door. That was such..._power_." With the word came a tighter grip that finally loosened her hold on her wand completely. A picture arose in her mind: young men bent on terror, drunk on the might of their own misdeeds.

"That night...was to be...Hammonds...Muggle-born girl's family. Evan said...enough sisters for...Evan started it..."

So, it had really happened...or it had happened to someone real. Not just an idea...rape, as well as murder. That was as much of a confession as she had been asking for earlier. More than she wanted to know, if he said another word. "That's enough," she said. Begged. "You don't have to tell me..."

"Oh, you wanted to know," he accused, lifting his head, the alcohol slur finally seeping into his words in earnest. "So beautiful..." Horribly, he trailed his fingers down her cheek. "Pushed back in her room...she was so white...in the moonlight. I could see...in her eyes...she thought if she...that I would...she begged me to save her... But I _couldn't_..." The word sounded as if it had been torn from inside his body, as if he were going to bleed to death from it. "None of them were...going to live. Someone else...would have killed her if... Couldn't seem...weak." He seemed to try to pull himself into a semblance of his usual unbending nature. And began shaking violently, whether from the whiskey or from the memories.

"_Stop_," she ordered. _Pleaded_.

"She was _mine_. That was so... No one ever...no one ever would...but me. _Me!_" With his face twisted up and distorted by shadows, the accusation of his own unloveliness was implicit. She didn't want, at this moment, to imagine how he had appeared then. It was terrible enough to be trapped underneath him now, living inside her own fears of what he might do. If he tried to force her now, she thought, she really might well scream. No matter who, in this horrible place, came to her rescue.

"Nothing was...ever like that...again. A fire inside...that..." Letting go of her wrist, he seemed to collapse onto her, suddenly heavy, making it harder to breathe. "It wouldn't die. It was like...fires of hell." He rolled partway off her then, a low, miserable sound coming from his throat.

Sarah's breath was coming in dry sobs. "_You stopped it_." She hardly knew what she was saying; she found her hand curled into a fist against his chest. "_You stopped it_."

Unexpectedly, his free arm went around her, awkwardly pulling to her to him, and he said, with equally unexpected clarity, "_Yes_. But, _understand_...I can't _change_ it."

In that simple fact, she knew, from her own meager experience, was all the substance of the torments of hell.

"I have...little enough power...to change the future. Protect you." He held her tighter, unaware of his own strength. She carefully levered herself breathing room.

She tried to think: what now? Perhaps he would fall asleep; his breathing was beginning to quiet. Given that she had not noticed any hints from him of actual arousal, in spite of the nature of what he was saying, it now seemed improbable that he was going to demand sex. That would have been...no, she wasn't even going to think about what it would be like, knowing what she knew now. That was something to worry about later. If there was a later.

She still had nowhere to run. If she ran.

_You can't stay, not knowing that..._

_Knowing what? Knowing what I knew before?_

_Knowing for **certain**._

And what she knew...

How could Professor Dumbledore have hired him, knowing this? Although perhaps he didn't know. No...he knew that Severus was a Death Eater. He must know what Death Eaters were guilty of, in general if not in specific. He probably knew more about that, even in the specifics, than a girl who had still been in her cradle when so much of it had occurred. Had he supposed that Severus was less guilty than the rest of them, somehow? Had he accepted the young man without any punishment...had he circumvented justice...?

He had set Severus to work as a spy against the Dark Lord. That in itself was a death sentence, suspended only by the whim of fortune each time he went back and risked discovery. He would have been safer in Azkaban.

Where would she be safe?

_Damn it, he's the same man he was yesterday, or this morning! It isn't he who's changed, is it? It's you._

_If I'd known before..._

_And was he bloody well likely to tell you? Can't you just picture the reserved Professor Snape: 'Before you agree to go to my room, Miss Darkglass, you ought to know that I've...'_

_Did I...do I remind him of her?_ The question flitted like a bat across the darkness of her thoughts. She shrank from it, turning her mind to something..._anything_ else.

_What if he tells you to get out, once he's sober? If he remembers what he said? Potter saw something. Was it that?_ Hardly likely, or the Aurors would have been knocking on Snape's door before the end of the week, she was sure. _Even assuming it was something else, the way Severus reacted..._ Could she expect any better?

Would she forgive anyone who made her remember having done such things?

_I've never done such things._

_He didn't rub your nose in the Edgecombe business, did he? He could have, too._

Was that his own guilt, stopping him? His own guilt behind his advice to set the matter aside?

_How about pragmatism? And how do you know that you won't be called upon to do worse and worse?_

_There'll come a point when I'll stop!_

_And which point is that? How many steps will you take, one after another, that'll lead you to the bottom of the same cliff you wouldn't dream of jumping off of?_

_I'll know. I'll just...know, when I can't do it anymore. Maybe that point is now._

Except, she realized, that Lucius Malfoy had no reason not to report to the Dark Lord the claims of a certain Miss Sarah Darkglass of Gryffindor House. There might yet be some meager hope that Malfoy would conveniently forget about her. Or that the Dark Lord would. But her mother's magic had already proven itself not to be that strong. It was ironic that the spell had a more substantial effect on those who might do her good than on those who had a clear and compelling reason to do her ill.

_Are you willing to stand before him, if they drag you there, and deny that you said such things? Admit to him that you don't want to serve him as your father did? That you refuse to do so? Are you willing to die in agony, and Severian with you? If it comes to that, will you let that monster force Severus to wear your blood on his hands as well?_

Clenching her teeth, she slid her own arm around him, pressed herself to his chest. He stirred slightly.

"Sarah?" he murmured.

_How many steps down the cliff had it taken before he had reached that point where he'd known he had to stop?_

"I'm here," she answered.

_What had it been like to have Dumbledore say: keep walking?_

"You're still here." His voice remained blurred and barely above a whisper.

"Yes."

"You're...going to leave."

Sarah took a deep breath. "No."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not sure what to say except, "Hang onto your Prozac!" The next chapter isn't so dark, but it's definitely unhappy. There _will_ be a payoff for all this—although, of course, not without its price. 


	30. Ch 29: Can I Ever Prevail

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** The book coming out in two weeks was not written by me. It will probably blast my fic to shreds. That's because Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just using her characters for my own nefarious purposes. None of which, however, include making any money from it.

**A/N:** I want to apologize that it's taken so long to get this chapter out. Normally, my final edit of a chapter is just a matter of tweaking a few words here and there. This time, it turned into my own personal disaster area. It is only due to two good friends, Swtbrier and Lady Whitehart, that this chapter is in remotely the condition I wanted it to be. Kudos to them!

Wow, I'm amazed at the number of new reviewers! Welcome aboard to AlanaRose12, TessaCilory, enigmalea and Sammy Cyanide, and thanks for speaking up. And much gratitude, of course, to my continuing, long-suffering reviewers, cecelle, Kay50, lucidity, Aiden2, serena, Darla, Owlbait and BradyB66.

Darla: 'Squicky' means something you encounter (especially in a fic) that makes you really downright uncomfortable. The original meaning of the term is actually something that would make **_most_** people feel pretty 'squicky' (and I truly don't recommend you go looking to find out that meaning, seriously). But in fan-fic, at least, it has come to have the meaning I gave above.

All reviewers: If you would like specific questions answered, please either enable your bio for email or else email me. It's impossible to contact you otherwise, and ff net has been cracking down on answering too many reviewers in one's author's notes.

So, to the chapter. I hate morning-after-a-fight fights even more than late-late-at-night fights. When it's late, at least you have the excuse that you're too tired to think clearly. It all hurts a lot more in the light of day. Of course, it's also more likely to get resolved in a semi-reasonable fashion.

* * *

**Chapter 29: Can I Ever Prevail When I'm Only a Man**

The pale light of dawn was a bitter thing. It laid bare all that had occurred in the night, in all its ugliness, unremittingly stripping away the fuzziness of overwrought emotion. It revealed the pillows on the floor against the wall where she'd thrown them. It lit the rumpled folds of the clothing they'd both slept in.

It demanded an answer to the question of how to go on.

What was it she had, to go on with?

_I'm pregnant and I have no money. My husband is a Death Eater, or at least pretending to still be loyal to the Dark Lord. And I've just found out that he was like any other Death Eater in his youth. That he did terrible things to real people. That shouldn't come as such a shock, should it? But it does, somehow. Because... Okay, admit it, Sarah. At one time he **enjoyed** it—that's the rub, isn't it? Even if he regrets it now. _

She turned, raised on her elbow, looked at him.

There was no innocence in that face, even asleep. It had been marked by his past, as surely as his arm had been marked by the Dark Lord, if not as plainly. Old and subtle lines of cruelty and malice showed in the mask of sleep. Not that they weren't there when he was awake. But asleep...it seemed worse, as if it were a truth about his soul.

Was running still remotely an option? She wasn't sure why she hadn't thought of it last night, but the Witches' Protection League must have an office in Diagon Alley. On the other hand, unless she lied outright, whatever she told them (_yes, I'm secretly married to one of my teachers at Hogwarts, who is also a Death Eater, and I'm five months pregnant with his child_) would have repercussions far beyond getting rescued from Knockturn Alley.

In fact, no matter how or where she ran, Severus would suffer the consequences, one way or another. Lucius Malfoy would almost certainly report her words to the Dark Lord himself. And Lucius knew that Severus was involved in the matter in some fashion, since no one else to whom Sarah would logically have turned knew anything about her purported loyalties. He would have to answer for her whereabouts and her status to the Dark Lord, and while he might be clever enough to find acceptable excuses, it was not a safe position to place him in.

_And that matters to you because...?_ said a self-serving little voice in her head. _Isn't it as much as he deserves, for the things he's done?_

_While Malfoy and his ilk walk free, though they're just as guilty? This isn't about the past, it's about the future. If the Dark Lord triumphs, far worse things will happen, to far many more people. Severus is in a unique position to help stop that from happening. _A bare whisper of thought added:_ And so are you._

_And if his loyalties aren't what you believe?_

_Then none of this matters, does it? _

She sat up. The motion was enough to rouse him, although he was clearly not happy to be roused. He reached around, presumably for a pillow to put over his head, and—upon not finding one—opened his eyes in a painful squint and groaned an oath.

"A hangover potion?" she said.

"If it's at all possible." He was near to begging, for him.

"Only if you're able to tell me the instructions."

"Not that hard. I'll do it myself if..." He tried to roll over and get out of bed, but he barely made it to a sitting position.

"I'll do it," Sarah said.

He grumbled out the procedure, which was very simple; it was probably created by some wizard who frequently needed it, but was sufficiently deluded about that fact that he couldn't be bothered to keep any on hand. The stores in the kitchen were more than adequate, and in less than a quarter of an hour, she brought him the desired dose.

He held it up to the light, still squinting painfully. Making no comment on her work (which was a comment of its own), he simply downed the stuff. With his eyes shut firmly, he sat and waited for the potion to begin to take effect.

"You will refrain from telling me again how stupid that was," he said, after a bit.

"Once was enough, I think," she said.

Now he was looking at her, clear-eyed. But troubled.

"Neither of us has any fondness for games," he said tightly. "Why didn't you leave?"

"Let's see," she answered sarcastically, "you expected me to wander off through Knockturn Alley alone in the dark?"

"I found your note."

Of course. She had left the quill and ink on the table. He must have got to the bin before the house-elf did.

"I threw it away," she pointed out.

"You should have burned it!" he snapped. "You said far too much for safety, had anybody else read it."

She remembered what she had written, realized that he was right.

"I was too upset to think clearly," she said, chagrined. "I'm sorry."

She fully expected a diatribe on caution; it was no more than she deserved. But as she waited, bracing herself, his anger seemed to transmute into something else. Suddenly he brushed a hand across his face, and stared at some invisible point on the wall.

"You should have left."

The words were blunt. Not laced with his usual sarcasm. For some reason that frightened her. She reacted with rage.

"_Is that why you told me? To drive me away?_"

"_You really believe that!_" he shot back. Perhaps the potion hadn't finished working yet, because he lowered his head into his hands, as if the effort to shout had triggered a new surge of pain.

"I don't know," she said, more quietly. That would have been a good way to kick her out, wouldn't it, getting her to leave on her own? Although obviously not as satisfactory for him, she realized, as just ordering her to go. Was that what he was working up to now?

He raised his head again slightly, his lank hair still hiding his face.

"I want an answer from you, Sarah. It seems you had decided to leave. Why did you stay?"

"I don't know," she repeated. She looked out the dingy window; people were already coming and going in the street.

"I assure you, I intend to find out." The warning was so surprising, so irrational even, that she turned back to him. He had drawn himself up straight, and his eyes were hard.

"How do you propose to find out what I don't know myself?" she asked in frustration. "I'm not trying to be _coy_, Severus. This isn't easy for me." She took a deep breath. "In fact, think I have as much right to know why _you_ told me what you did."

"You insisted upon knowing the entire ugly story of my life!" he accused. "Oh yes, you _wanted_ to know!" It was, curiously, a less painful accusation now that he was sober.

"You could have told me _no_. You _did_ tell me no. Then you got drunk and told me anyway. What was the purpose in that?"

He glanced away, and his voice grew quieter, but colder. "I came to the conclusion that, sooner or later, in the company I keep, you would hear more of the truth." He met her gaze again. "Or distortions of the truth. Insinuations. Meant to test you, at the worst. At the very least, to try to hurt you. As Lucius did last night."

"So," Sarah's voice quavered, "you decided to hurt me yourself, instead."

"Which would you have _preferred?_" he challenged angrily again, standing up. "Last night you gave me to understand that you would rather hear the truth from my own mouth."

"I just...I didn't know how I would feel about it." Her eyes went again to the window, scarcely seeing anything more than the square of light it made in the wall.

"And how _do_ you feel about it?" There was that jagged, painful edge she had heard before on his words.

"Shocked," she admitted, still feeling it. "Frightened. I didn't think that you could have really done...things...like that."

"Then you have had a very mistaken opinion of me," he sneered.

"Have I?" She looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes in all their power. All he had done, all he might yet do, was hidden in that blackness, and fear shot through her. It was difficult not to look away.

"I thought I had made plain to you, from the very beginning, the kind of man I am. What I am capable of."

"You have," she said. "You haven't lied to me."

"And yet you believed me incapable of such things?" Disbelief clouded his expression.

"Can you really blame me for not wanting to accept that possibility?" she protested. "I knew you wished to keep some things secret from me. I confess you had good reason to. I was wrong to question you."

"Say that again."

"What?"

"You heard me. Say it again," he repeated, low and dangerous.

"I was wrong to question you?"

"Again, Sarah." His eyes bore down on her.

"_No_. Are you mad? You want me to bow down to you _now?_ How far do you plan to push me? Out the door?"

"Isn't that what you want?" he asked bitterly.

"No!"

"_The truth, Sarah?_"

"Are you sure _you_ can handle the truth?" she challenged him.

His upper lip curled.

"All right, then, here it is: if I had somewhere to go, someplace to run, I think I might. For a little while, at least. Until I managed to come to terms with...with what you told me. But I don't _have_ a place to run. And I'm not sure I have time to waste on agonizing over these things the way I should. It can only be a matter of time until Lucius Malfoy reveals me to the Dark Lord. If I cringe from knowing this much...how can I be convincing if I have to appear before him?" Sarah was shuddering badly by the time she finished this speech. He pulled her to him, as if to comfort her, although he must have felt her balk at his touch.

He held her for a long time in silence, until her urge to push him away faded and the familiarity of his embrace loosened some of the tension that racked her frame. It did nothing for the confusion in her mind.

"I should send you away," he said, into her hair. "America, perhaps, or South Africa. If it's possible to arrange something before the week is out—"

"No. I won't go."

"You just finished telling me you wanted to go."

"Not that far. Or that long. Severus," she broke partway from his hold and looked up at him, "would it ever be safe for me to come back? And how would I live? An O.W.L.-level job—assuming I could get one in my condition—and a baby, too?"

"Albus Dumbledore has contacts, I'm certain. You would be protected."

"And leave you to face the risk of exposure?"

"Don't concern yourself with such things," he said, taking her by the shoulders, holding her at arm's length.

Sarah tried to shrug off his hands, anger seething through her. "Heaven forbid I should worry my pretty little head about anything! I'm not a child, Severus. _Women_ are not children, whatever the men who raised you led you to believe. Surely you don't think a woman like Professor McGonagall is incapable of dealing with problems on her own. _Or_ your Aunt Miriam."

"Neither of those women is my responsibility! You are!"

"And what about that girl? Was that just 'taking care of your responsibilities'?" she snapped.

Abruptly, he shoved her away from him, almost throwing her off balance. His face darkened.

She raised her hands to her mouth and turned away, gasping. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Why? Surely it's no more than I deserve." There was pain in his voice. Tremendous pain, and anger, too.

"I still shouldn't have..." She wasn't sure why she felt so guilty, or why such a strike at him, however well deserved, should wound her own heart.

"Sarah," he said, sounding as if he were trying very hard to master himself. He laid a hand on her upper arm from behind.

"Don't touch me!" She flinched. But he took both her shoulders in an iron grip.

"I _will_ touch you. I am going to say this."

She waited, shuddering. When he spoke, his voice was preternaturally quiet.

"It is hardly to be expected that I shall escape a more...eternal form of punishment for the things I've done. If you are able to take comfort in that, as I'm sure the souls of my victims do, feel free to do so." From the moment she had accused him, Sarah had felt a sob rising in her, and at this, it choked its way into her throat. "To whatever extent I have become anything...better...or achieved any recompense whatsoever, it is in consequence of her. For the first time since I had sought power in the Dark Lord's circle, I wanted to preserve a life instead of destroying it." She felt his hands slip from her shoulders, heard him sit down on the side of the bed. She risked a glance over her shoulder and again saw the curtain of black hair that shrouded his face where it had sunk between his hands.

"I'm sure you would like to believe that change to have happened instantly, but it didn't. It took a long time of...being plagued. Mad, improbable ideas about what might have occurred had she lived. It became an obsession I had to conceal. And in doing that, I discovered I still had thoughts of my own. I resented having been made to forget that. I saw that the power I had been offered required more of my soul than I was willing to part with."

"You went to Dumbledore?" Sarah murmured, having turned so slowly to face him that she hardly realized she had done so. "How did you dare?"

"He had told me once, before I was willing to listen, that the greatest power anybody possessed was the ability to choose, not just once and for all, but over and over. I believed that if anyone would accept a change in choices, it would be he."

"But he sent you back..."

"Free, Sarah. He sent me back free to make my actions, no matter how necessary and unpleasant, serve my own purposes...and his, of course, as I chose. He gave me something the Dark Lord would never have offered." He looked up at her, the harshness in his eyes full of new shades of meaning. "I had done things that could not be changed. But it was possible to change their purpose. To try to change the ending. Even though I couldn't change hers."

Sarah had never before felt any consciousness of a serious rival. It was strange beyond reckoning now to feel that this girl, so many years dead, had a unyielding place in him—his heart or mind or soul, she didn't know which. Nor was it a place, upon sober reflection, that she desired to have. Undoubtedly the girl had not wanted it either. It was all too easy to conjure up the terror of that scene from the sympathy of her own memories. She wondered how she could ever again bear his intimacy. Then, as she closed her eyes against the thought, she wondered how she could bear never having him again.

_What kind of person am I?_

"I cannot ask you to stay here," Severus said. When she opened her eyes, he was staring out the window. "There is a place you might go, for the remainder of the week. It was suggested to me, in that letter, as being a safer place to spend the holidays, with Connor on the loose, but I felt at the time it was better that you not know about it." He turned back to her, frowning deeply. "I still believe it would be best for you not to go there. But under the circumstances, that is the only refuge I can offer you."

Refuge. Was there anyplace she could go that would make her forget all she had learned? Well, she thought wryly, the Oblivation Office at the Ministry of Magic. That was hardly an option. Still, breathing space...? It was so tempting.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she paced around the little room and found herself sitting on the other side of the bed with her back to him. Was it possible, this time, to pretend that nothing had happened? Or would her knowledge of the truth keep bleeding through, like blood on the bandage over a wound? On the other hand, she had much more serious things to worry about in the present—such as the very real possibility that she would be brought before the Dark Lord himself to account for her threatening boasts to Draco. That, too, was something that would not go away for the wishing.

"Severus," she whispered.

"What?" he asked tautly, as if expecting to be displeased by whatever she said.

She steadied herself. "If you think it unwise for me to leave now or to go to this place you spoke of, I will cede to your judgment." _Such yielding words_. Speaking them gave her a curious rush, not altogether pleasant, but not altogether unpleasant. Driven by the sensation, she spoke again. "You are my husband, and you know more of these things than I do."

She heard his sharp intake of breath. It gave her a strange sense of power to know that, whatever he was thinking, whatever he said next, she had caused it, and not by any force of her words. It was a weirdly heady feeling.

"Then you will remain here, if you can bear to do so. We shall proceed with your lessons as planned." Although he sounded something like his usual stern self, there was an odd quaver in his voice. "Aside from that necessity, nothing shall be...required of you."

_Can you not put it bluntly? No, probably not. And as of this moment, I refuse to consider what it will be like to lie next to him in this bed at the end of this day_. Borrowing trouble. _I have more than enough_.

"What now?" she asked, still riding that strange high of concession.

"Breakfast. To settle my head and both our stomachs. Then more Occlumency. This will not be a pleasant day."

* * *

In one sense, he had spoken the truth. The Occlumency sessions were grueling, broken only now and again by breaks to eat and to nap, both of which were profoundly necessary, due to the strains of the constant employment of magic on top of the difficult night they had spent. But her dreams during these naps were filled with troubling images of the past imposed upon the present. Scenes in which her father might suddenly become Severus, or vice versa, and in which she herself likewise failed to maintain a steady identity. Toward evening, she had a kind of nightmare in which she turned into her father, as he stood before the Dark Lord, and made bizarre accusations about Severus that only made sense in the context of the dream, but that she felt sure the Dark Lord must act upon to destroy him; then she was herself again, and desperate, without a clue how to undo the damage she'd done. She woke from the scene shaking, wishing she dared to huddle up to him, to assure herself, on a level that logic could not reach, that it had only been a dream. 

That she could think of doing so was a testament to the power that a day spent working in close company with him, enduring mental attacks that brought them into closer proximity than any embrace, had had toward inuring her to his continued presence, in spite of everything. She _would_ have sought the comfort of his closeness, deliberately not thinking too carefully about anything, if she had not been so worried that he might take the matter the wrong way. That he might make assumptions about her ability to cope that she was not prepared to have made.

He went out to bring back fish and chips for supper, unwilling, for the time being, to risk having her seen by anyone else. She paced the flat while he was gone, worried about so many things that they had to stand on queue for a moment of her attention. When he came back, she ate so entirely as if she were starving that he offered her part of his share, claiming that he wasn't particularly hungry. And when he pulled out his wand for another session, after the wrappers had been crumpled and thrown away, she buried her face in her arms against the table.

"I'm so tired," she begged.

He responded harshly. "You know you cannot count on being fully rested when you are forced to use these skills."

"I know," she whispered.

"You _do_ understand what's at stake, Sarah?" His voice was razor-edged.

"Yes, I do." She raised her head slowly, trying to will herself to have the energy to meet his demands.

She was surprised, when she met his eyes, to see his anger at her weakness giving way to frustration, thinly veiling a look of defeat.

"We will begin again tomorrow," he said, tucking his wand away again. "Expect to start early and work hard. It will be worse than today."

_No, nothing could be worse than today_, she thought in response. She was a witch. What good was that if it could not let her somehow erase the past twenty-four hours?

"Go to bed, Sarah," he chided, and she realized that she was dozing.

"You're not leaving?" she asked. She could not help fearing a repeat of last night.

"I'll come to bed shortly. There is a matter I need to deal with."

She put on her red flannel nightgown in the shadows, and came back to the door. He was sitting at the table, writing. Or rather, tapping the feather end of the quill against his lips as he stared at the parchment in front of him in deep concentration.

"This may take some time," he said, when he noticed her there. "Go to sleep."

The urge to ask him what he was doing was strong. But not as strong as her weariness, or her reluctance to pester him.

She fell asleep to the mouse-scritching sound of his quill on the parchment.

* * *

**A/N:** Lemons next chapter. As unlikely as that seems. 


	31. Ch 30: Those Tremulous Stars

**Obligatory Disclaimer:  
**Rowling owns the Potter fame  
and all the things that go with it.  
I just use the place and name  
To tell a tale of her greasy git.  
(I know this poem is quite a shame  
but please don't sue my butt for it?)

**A/N:** This is a quicker update than usual. Thanks to cecelle, TessaCilory, BradyB66, Kay50, lucidity, Aiden 2, Owlbait, AlanaRose12 and Darla (I wish I knew—then I could bottle it and sell it) for reviewing! Your praise makes me quite giddy. :)

I meant to put this quote on the last chapter, but I had misplaced the paper it was on. This is by Ralph Waldo Emerson:  
"_Be not the slave of your own past—plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with a new power, with an advanced experience, that shall explain and overlook the old_."

And now, a short chapter, but packed with lemony goodness (at least I hope it's to your taste; if not, I apologize). Don't mind too much how this chapter begins. Yes, he's a nasty git. But he's _her_ nasty git.

**

* * *

Chapter 30: Those Tremulous Stars Still Glitter**

Even before Sarah opened her eyes, she had an odd sensation. It was very early—the light was barely that of dawn. She blinked. Severus was lying close to her, looking at her with disturbing intensity.

"What are you doing?" She shifted uneasily.

"Trying to decide if it's worth the trouble of restraining myself. Since you already know the worst." The words were chilling in their implication. But his voice was deeply bitter, and he sat up, grimacing.

"Obviously you decided that it was," she said, although she was by no means sure that he had, in fact, decided that until this moment. She sat up as well, nervous about presenting him with temptation by continuing to lie there on her back.

"Obviously," he answered dryly. He began to stand up, but she caught his arm.

"This isn't forever," she said. "Just until I can...can cope."

"Is that likely to be _ever?_" he snarled. "Not that I can blame you. Only myself."

"Would you stop! And you complain about _me_ feeling sorry for myself!"

He wrenched his arm out of her grasp. "Don't push me!"

"You haven't slept, have you?" Sarah finally took in the fact that he was dressed. "And you've been taking Invigoration Draughts, haven't you?"

"I needed a clear head..." he began, then abruptly rose to his feet. "I refuse to make excuses to you for my actions."

"You know the bloody side effects!"

"The bloody side effects were never a problem until you came into my life!" He rounded on her.

_Then why don't you kick me out of it?_ But no, they had already been over that territory yesterday. She wasn't going to risk having him decide that he really did want her gone.

"It wouldn't be a problem," he went on, when she didn't retort immediately, "if you..." He trailed off, as if realizing what he was saying.

She could finish his sentence in her mind: _if you would give in_. Probably he had phrased it a little more crudely to himself.

Looking disgusted, whether at her or at himself, he stalked out into the kitchen without another word.

Sarah drew up her knees and huddled over them.

_Remind me again why you're refusing him...? On second thought, don't. So you're going to punish him for telling you the truth?_

_Not for telling the truth. Just for what the truth was._

_Something he can't change, remember? No matter how much he regrets it. You want to punish him for not being able to change the past? That isn't fair. Not to the man you've accepted as your husband_.

_I don't intend to keep refusing him. Just..._

_Just what? Until you forget what he told you? He's right—that'll be never_.

She got up and went to the kitchen door. He was brewing something in a cauldron. And tea.

"Severus..." she said quietly.

"_What?_" he growled, not even turning to face her.

"Please come back."

There was no answer but his tense breathing.

"I mean it."

"Do you?" His sarcasm was ragged-edged. "I will not tolerate games, Sarah. I'm not in a state where I would stop myself should you suddenly decide that you really _didn't_ mean it. And I am not prepared to pick up the pieces that would be left."

It had been a long time since he had tried to use fear as a seduction technique. She was appalled to find herself responding to it, under the circumstances. And yet...she had _missed_ that. Not that she didn't appreciate tenderness, but...

"I'm not playing games. I just want to try to have things be...right again. With us."

He still hadn't turned. "You believe they could ever be right again?"

The words came unbidden to her tongue, the expression of a knowledge she'd been denying for a long time. But now, after all her attempts to excuse or rationalize her choices, it was the only answer she had.

"I love you," she said, tears starting in her eyes.

He whirled around, and for a moment she was afraid that he was going to spit her confession back into her face. But when he did get a word out, it was choked.

"_What?_"

"I'll say it again, if you want me to. If you don't, then..."

There was a shifting avalanche of emotions across his face. He stood still, saying nothing. Had she been wrong about what she had stopped him from saying? Or had she been right that he would hate her now for knowing too many of his secrets?

"Why would you say that _now?_" he asked, viciously skeptical.

"Do you not _want_ me to say it? I know it's dangerous. I know that you told me a long time ago not to become attached." She stopped, trying to swallow her tears. "But you made me think that..."

"That I love you?" There was still a sarcastic edge on his voice. She wondered what she would do, how she would bear it if he rejected her now. Tears were running down her face, and she could not prevent them; she shut her eyes, unwilling to look any longer at his face, to try to read the emotions there.

She heard his footsteps, cat-quiet across the floor. Felt his hands grasp her shoulders. _Damned tears, getting worse and worse!_

"Look at me," he demanded hoarsely.

She blinked up at him. Those black, black eyes, reading what he found in hers, as if he were using Legilimency, subtly and without a wand.

"If you don't believe me," she whispered, "then what do you see?"

"Fear," he said. "Pain." His hard expression quavered, as if he could not sustain it. "Bloody hell...how _can_ you?"

Without any preamble, he caught her up in his arms. Her foot bumped on the doorpost as he carried her through into the bedroom, and she giggled, her nerves driven to the point of mild hysteria. He did not. He lowered her onto the bed with a grim countenance, and straddled her menacingly.

"You're going to regret this," he said in a strained voice, and it was not clear if it was a threat or an observation or a fear he was expressing.

Sarah shook her head. He'd been right, though: she _was_ frightened. Trying to remind herself that he'd been her lover for months and months only made it worse. She had been with him all that time, not knowing...

She shut her eyes as his hair came down around her face, blocking the light, and his lips came down demandingly upon hers.

_Can I do this?_

_You don't have much choice now, do you? How are you planning to pull yourself together enough to manage this? Because he was right—if you don't, there won't be enough pieces of your relationship left to even spell back together. And you'll still have to tell the Dark Lord_...

Oh.

That was at the core of everything, wasn't it? If not for the company Severus was still forced to keep, the company that, at some point, she would be thrust into, there would have been no need for him to tell her anything. Her preparation for that eventuality had gone deeper than either of them had planned. And it would have to go deeper yet, if she was to survive this. She couldn't afford, now, with the truth of their emotions revealed, to hope that half-measures would be enough. However much she would prefer death to accepting the Dark Lord's rule, she could no longer think only of herself. She could take no risks that would result in Severus being forced to kill her and their unborn child. Or refusing to do so, and watching them die anyway, before he was killed himself.

_Sarah Darkglass Snape_, she told herself brutally, _would not feel horrified at sleeping with a man who has done the things Severus has done_. She forced herself to sink into that role again. It felt as if she were pushing herself down into quicksand. But she had no choice, not now.

He seemed to sense some change in her, because he broke off the intense snogging. "What is it? What are you doing?"

"What I have to," she answered numbly, staring up at him with the rawness of this new necessity unhidden on her face.

He understood. His eyes—filled with the same regret she had seen there so often before—closed tightly for a moment, as if in pain, but when he opened them again, they were clear pools of dark adoration. "You will listen to me this time," he murmured, bending to brush his lips against her ear. "I love you, Sarah."

They had never made love in the light of day. It was a curious thing, that it should happen now, as her life was being plunged into darkness. On the other hand, the morning light was unforgiving, hiding no physical imperfections, diminishing the kindness of shadows. It brought out every harsh plane of his face.

Nor was it as easy to maintain her darker sense of self. Perhaps that would not have been entirely easy, even in the depths of night. But it gave no aid to pretenses.

"Are you certain?" he asked, watching her struggle to banish thoughts that insisted on asserting themselves. He had her nightgown pushed up, his trousers open; it was a foolish question.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

He frowned slightly. It was curious request. They seldom undressed completely, merely taking advantage of the access their nightclothes provided. The one notable occasion they had been entirely naked was hardly a good memory to evoke. But she didn't want to see him, dark-robed, with other figures in black, bursting into a house...

Dubiously—she could see the memory of their wedding night in his eyes—he did as she asked, casting aside robes and trousers.

"Your shirt, too," she said, as he approached her again.

"Sarah..." He shook his head.

"I know that my husband is a Death Eater." She was inexorable, suppressing the chills that ran through her. "I have to relish that. Let me do it."

While he leaned over her uneasily, she reached up and undid the buttons of his shirt, small bone buttons that ran from throat to mid-chest. The dark fabric fell open to reveal a tangle of dark hairs, which stood out all the blacker against his pale skin. Crossing his arms, he snagged the bottom of the shirt and pulled it off over his head, drawing his hair up off his neck; it settled again, lankly, around his shoulders as he threw the shirt aside.

Her hand went to the fingers he had laid automatically across his opposite inner arm. A mark of shame, his gesture said, of foolish, youthful choices from which he would never be completely free. Then she was struck with a terrible thought: would she be expected to take the Dark Mark herself? Anyone who heard about what she had said to Draco Malfoy had every reason to believe she wanted to. She trembled, her fingers convulsing over his.

"Sarah..."

"It's not that. Not you. I just suddenly realized...if he makes me..."

"One of us is enough. Don't even think it. Not now."

She tried to steady her breathing as she tugged his fingers aside.

An ugly shape, the color of a bruised rose. The shape that had marked her father's arm in her earliest memories. _"It's gone. He's gone,"_ she remembered her mother saying. Her father had laughed at that. _"Some of us know better." _But he had never shown Sarah his arm after that. She did not like to think what must have happened the first time her mother had seen the Dark Mark there and had known what kind of man she had married.

_I know what kind of man I've married_, Sarah thought fiercely.

She looked up into his eyes. They studied her darkly, as hooded with desire as a snake ready to strike.

"Sit up," he demanded. He pulled her up and took in handfuls of her nightgown, drawing it off over her head. She cooperated by raising her arms, then fell back against the pillows, breathless with her own vague sense of shame, with her own desire.

"You are so beautiful," he said, looking at her as if she were going to disappear up the chimney in another moment.

_So beautiful_... He had said the same, hadn't he, of that girl who...?

_No_, she pleaded with herself, trying to close that gap in the armor she was building around her mind.

He fell upon her with force, as if he were unable to contain himself any longer. Not a good moment to falter. He was already bringing his knees up between hers...

He paused, feeling her resistance. "_Damn it, Sarah_," he cursed.

"It's all right," she gasped. "It's all right. I want it to be like this."

Desperate need occluded the anger and disbelief on his face.

"I _mean_ it," she urged.

_I'm sorry_, she thought, _I'm so sorry, whoever-you-were Miss Hammond. But I want him. I want him_. Sarah felt as if something were breaking inside her, as she let her own needs overcome her pity. She couldn't think about it now. But on some level she sensed, with a pang of both fear and triumph, that whatever had broken had made it easier to be Sarah Darkglass Snape.

She _did_ want it like this, she realized. The faintest resistance, the faintest touch of fear made her quiver.

"I'm not stopping," he warned her, hoarsely.

"I don't want you to." But she made him push her legs apart. She pressed her hands against his chest. She whimpered faintly when she felt him against her.

"_Sarah?_" The mingled anguish and desire in his voice were almost unbearable.

"Don't stop," she begged.

He didn't. He moaned an oath, though, as he took her.

She didn't restrain her impulse to cry out.

"Sarah?" he gasped again, cupping her face with one hand, trying to read whether her words or her body had been telling the truth.

"You're mine!" she said fiercely, heedless of the tears that welled up in her eyes. She touched his face. "You're _mine!_"

She had only a moment to ponder his faintly puzzled expression before he removed all doubts with a kiss.

"Always," he murmured against her lips. "Always."

It had never been quite like this. However immoral their coupling had been before their marriage, it seemed pure compared to how she felt now. With that red shadow on his arm always at the corner of her eye, she had no choice but to be her father's daughter. That or go mad with terror. It had always seemed before that he had come up to where she was. Now it was as if she had sunk down to his level.

_It was necessary_, she told herself, in his voice. _And it can't be changed now_.

And turning from that thought, she let herself sink into such guilty pleasure with him as she had never known.

* * *

**A/N:** And on that note, we return to _Phantom_. BTW, there was another paraphrase from _An Awfully Big Adventure_ in there. Did you catch it? 


	32. Ch 31: Let Daylight Dry Your Tears

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** As always, I'm just doing this for fun and reviews. The money and copyright belong to J. K. Rowling and whoever she's seen fit to share them with.

**A/N:** Thank you, reviewers, for both praising me and keeping me humble—I'm forever amazed by your varied responses. For reviewing the last chapter, thanks to Darla, TessaCilory, cecelle, BradyB66, lucidity, AlanaRose12, Sammy Cyanide, Lady Whitehart, Kay50, morwen24 and Aiden2.

Here's a much lighter chapter for a change, due mainly to fact that we get to visit with Miriam again. I thought it was time for a breather.

* * *

**Chapter 31: Let Daylight Dry Your Tears**

"What must the neighbors think?" Sarah said, burrowing against Severus's chest.

"No doubt, that we're considerably luckier than they are," he snorted. He was still a little breathless.

She giggled.

He flopped over on his back. "I believe the last of that Invigoration Draught just ran out." He shut his eyes with a sigh.

"Sleep," she said, feeling a pang of guilt at having demanded so much of a man who hadn't rested all night.

He shook his head against the pillow. "I _must_ post those letters."

"I'll do it."

"Like hell," he said, opening his eyes slightly. "You will not wander around Knockturn Alley on your own. Particularly not out towards Diagon Alley."

"I'll get Miriam to go with me." The idea struck her suddenly as brilliant. She was tired of being shut up, of being shepherded around when she _was_ allowed out. "I'll get one of the kids down there to take her a message."

"I won't have you risking—"

"I can take care of myself!" she said, so firmly that he had to look at her. Whether it was because he was so tired, or because the new Sarah was more convincingly unyielding than the old one, he shut his eyes again.

"Be careful, Sarah," he said. "My purse is in the pocket of my robe. It has a powerful anti-thief hex on it, so bring it here."

She slipped off the bed, figured out which puddle of black fabric was his robe, and tossed it over his most naked parts, then set about dressing herself. While she did so, he dug both wand and purse out of the robe. He modified the hex to prevent it from damaging her (and judging from the few words she heard of the murmured spell, it sounded rather as if the results of an attempt to pick his pocket would have been nasty indeed), then let his wand hand fall back against the bed with a weary sigh.

"Don't spend it all," he said, as she picked up the little leather pouch. "That's all we have for the week."

"Never fear," she said, bending to kiss the curve of his beaky nose. "I'm not a spendthrift, love. Sleep well."

He mumbled something about _green_ as she left the room.

* * *

The state of things in the kitchen was rather alarming. The kettle had boiled dry and was turning a nasty color, while the potion in the cauldron was giving off puffs of purple steam that made her eyes sting and her nose water when she bent to check it. She quenched the fires quickly, then ducked over to the window and opened it. He must have been in a bad state to forget something like that. 

She leaned out partway through the window frame, looking for a likely messenger. A small crowd of boys were playing a makeshift game of Gobstones in front of the warehouse next door. In trying to decide which of them would prove the most trustworthy, she spied a girl on the near edge of the circle, with bare legs and feet under her none-too-tidy brown dress. Her dingy blonde hair was braided down her back, and she edged back and forth as if anxious at the outcome of the game.

"You, girl!" she called down. A half-dozen unwashed faces turned to look up. The girl had a round, somber face. "Do you know where Miriam Snape lives?"

"Cos," the girl said. Sarah sincerely hoped that meant _of course_.

"If you take her a message and bring back her answer, I'll give you...two knuts." She stifled the impulse to be more generous. But the girl's face lit up.

"Wha's yer message?"

"Just a moment," Sarah said. She ducked back inside, grabbed a piece of parchment, and scrawled: _Miriam, Can you come take a walk with me this morning? Sarah_. She folded it up into a small packet and took it to the window. "Catch!"

The girl did, easily. Sarah felt a pang, wondering, if the girl were to go to Hogwarts—which she looked almost old enough to do—if she would be recruited as a Seeker. Which House would she be in? _What are you thinking of?_ Sarah turned from the window. _You don't give two pins about Quidditch, and that girl will likely never go to Hogwarts. And if she doesn't get a letter, in another ten years she'll still be standing around, waiting for those boys to pay to have sex with her_.

Frustrated by these grim thoughts—because she had no power to change the outcome—she moved back to the table, where she had seen, as she wrote her own note, two letters sealed and waiting to be posted. She studied the addresses.

_Franklin Nott  
__Notting Chase  
__Northumberland_

Her uncle. Or rather her Aunt Fiona's husband. She remembered Fiona as a sharp woman, always fussing at her children (and at Sarah as well) to behave themselves. Her father had typically been jovial in company, but his older sister acted as if the presence of other people pinched her in the same way as a new pair of shoes might; she always carried out her husband's requests with a kind of arrogant long-suffering. Although she only had one daughter of her own—already a teenager and usually off at Hogwarts—she had never expressed any degree of fondness for her niece. _"Don't let it worry you,"_ was all her father had to say on the subject when Sarah had complained that her aunt did not like her. Perhaps Fiona had been upset at the idea that Malcolm might permit his daughter to inherit the Darkglass fortune ahead of her sons. Perhaps she simply didn't like _anyone_. Regardless, Sarah had no inclination to come back into contact with Fiona's family. Not even as her new self.

It was more likely, she realized, considering their encounter with Lucius Malfoy, that the ultimate intended recipient of whatever message it contained was the Dark Lord himself.

She turned her eyes and thoughts to the other letter. It was addressed simply to: _Remus Lupin, London_. Curiouser and curiouser. Whenever the Potions master had substituted for Professor Lupin during her fifth year, he had given every indication that he had a very low opinion of his fellow teacher. The rumor, of course, was that Snape resented someone else being offered the Dark Arts post yet again. Whether that was the case or not, he hadn't reacted well when she'd mentioned the former Defense professor in connection with the Wolfsbane Potion. Why on earth would he be writing to the man (or rather, werewolf)? In reaction to what had happened with Malfoy? Or something else completely unconnected?

Did Lupin know—against all probability—where Professor Dumbledore was? Had that been Professor Lupin's almost-familiar handwriting on the letter they had received on Saturday?

It was oddly disturbing, as she stared down at the pair of letters, to think of Severus being in contact with both sides like this at the same time. No wonder he had needed to sit up all night writing. How many drafts had he burnt to ashes in that time?

She fingered the seal on the letter to Remus Lupin. She knew just the charm, courtesy of Professor Umbridge, to unseal and reseal it. The temptation was profound. The contents of both letters were almost certainly about her. The teeniest flick of her wand, and she would know what Severus had said about her and what he intended to do. Of course, he also might come charging out of the bedroom door, not nearly asleep enough to miss someone prying into his private business.

What decided her, finally, was that neither of the end recipients—if they were who she guessed—would probably trust the contents of a letter without casting revealing charms on it to determine if it had, in fact, come from the person it was supposed to have, and if anyone else had read it. That was something Severus could not afford. At least not from her.

She _evanescoed_ the spoiled potion in the cauldron—a blood-cooling draught, she suspected, from the ingredients he'd left out (and the situation at the time)—and filled the still sizzling kettle with water, coughing at the angry steam it gave off as she rinsed it and filled it again. After checking to make sure that Severus was sleeping soundly, she made just enough tea for herself and was pouring out when she heard the snap of something hitting the windowpane.

She went to the window, ducking involuntarily as something small hit the glass right in front of her nose. She opened the window quickly, before another could be thrown. The girl she had sent on her errand was back, looking up at the window expectantly.

"I gots yer answer," the girl shouted up. "I wants me money."

Sarah took two knuts from the leather pouch and tossed them, one after another, into the girl's waiting hands. The same folded packet of parchment (if the girl had not actually delivered it, Sarah thought, she was going to hex her bare toes off) came sailing up into the air. Not quite high enough.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" Sarah snapped her wand out, caught the packet on its downward arc and brought it floating up to the window, where she snatched it out of the air. She heard a couple of appreciative hoots from down below; the boys had been watching the exchange.

She unfolded the parchment and found the answer written below her own request:

Sarah, I would be happy to walk with you. I'll come by as soon as I can. Miriam 

"Thank you," she called down to the girl, who was smugly studying the bronze coins. A boy, who looked enough like her to be her brother, closed in on her with his hand out, obviously demanding all or part of her windfall. She took off down the street with him after her. "It's hers," Sarah shouted at the boy, who paused only briefly in his pursuit to look disgustedly up at the window. Hopefully the girl had been able to use that moment to make good her escape. Sarah felt a twinge of despair, that her good intentions had only caused the girl grief.

She sat with her tea at the table, staring with helpless curiosity at the waiting letters. _Does Miriam know where Severus lives?_ she wondered, as she listened for any sounds of the woman's approach outside. No, she must know, or else she had got directions from the girl. Sarah went reluctantly back to the window. The boys were still playing Gobstones. Her imagination roved over the thought of an impossibly young Severus among such a group once upon a time, and settled uneasily on the all-too-similar image of Severian, dirty and skinny, kneeling at the edge of a roughly chalked circle in ten years time. No, Severus had promised her better things for their son. The image still haunted her, though.

At the sight of Miriam coming down the way, Sarah sprang up and threw on her outer robes, tucking both the bespelled pouch and the letters into an inner pocket. Quickly restoring a couple of the more basic wards on the door of the flat, she scurried down the narrow steps. She was profoundly glad that the ladies who had been plying their trade in front of the house the day they'd arrived had not yet taken up their posts today.

"Good morning, Sarah," Miriam greeted her. She looked up at the window, clearly knowing exactly which one was Severus's, and raised her eyebrows. "He's not keeping tabs on you?"

"He's asleep," Sarah confessed, in a whisper.

"I hope he doesn't react badly to discovering you gone."

"I have his permission," Sarah said, bristling a little at her own words. "I need to post some letters for him."

"Not hiding your face today?" Miriam studied her.

"No." Sarah was tired of covering her face. If she was going to walk free in the air, she was going to walk free entirely. "Even supposing that someone recognizes me here, they can hardly make anything of another woman's company. And it may be too late to hide anything." She explained, in a low murmur, their meeting with Lucius Malfoy on Sunday night.

"He's a bad piece of work, that one," Miriam said, taking her arm and leading her off down the street. "Slick as an eel. And each of his fingers in a different pie. He was none too happy when Caius paid off the last of Marcus's debts. I imagine he's never stopped holding those old obligations over Severus's head, though."

"No," Sarah said. "And his little brat of a son is no better."

"I expect not."

"Oh, I haven't had breakfast yet," Sarah commented, spying the stand where they'd eaten the other morning.

"Laws, what are you thinking?" Miriam said, steering her toward it. She declined Sarah's offer to buy her something, and watched approvingly while Sarah ate two large pumpkin pasties. "You can't afford to starve yourself. You've all too little extra padding yourself, and he was one of the scrawnier babies I've ever seen."

"You were there, when he was born?" Sarah asked, surprised. Even though they were keeping their voices low, she noticed that Miriam was careful not to say her nephew's name.

"I was just an apprentice at the time, mind you," Miriam said. She gestured vaguely down the street. "I grew up out there, in Diagon Alley. My parents even had some notion of sending me to Hogwarts. But I knew what I wanted to be, right along. And everyone knew that Old Mother Bern was the best midwife in London, even though she worked down Knockturn."

"So you knew his mother, then?" Sarah asked, holding off from another bite.

"Yes, I did. Of course, Calpurnia was a few years older than I was. But when Caius started courting me, after Albert got himself killed, I saw a good deal more of her than I would've otherwise. I don't know as you'd say we were friends exactly—she didn't have many when I knew her, to be honest, because of the spot she was in: ill, and with Marcus raging about, and a child but no husband—but I would say there was a bit of sisterhood there."

Sarah could not help herself. "Did she ever tell you who the father was?"

Miriam looked at her a bit oddly. "She never told anyone, so far as I know. Old Mother Bern was good at prying out such things, but even she couldn't get Calpurnia to tell." Sarah wondered if the old midwife had taught her apprentice her astuteness, or if Miriam had come by it naturally. "Perhaps I shouldn't say so, but when she was travailing, she said things that..." Miriam sighed and shook her head.

"What?" Sarah asked, intensely curious. She swallowed the last bite of pie, and dusted off her fingers.

"I got the impression—" Miriam said reluctantly, "and don't think badly of her when I say this, because she wasn't that sort of woman—but I think that she may not have known herself...that she didn't _want_ to know."

Sarah stared at Miriam, puzzled, the pumpkin pasties sitting suddenly very heavily on her stomach.

"I don't understand."

"Perhaps that's for the best," Miriam said, in a lighter tone, taking her arm and guiding her along again. "I've already spoken to more than I know for truth, and my hazy speculations are too dark for sharing, least of all with you." And that, clearly, was all she meant to say, leaving Sarah quite perplexed but without any remedy for it.

* * *

As they slowly threaded their way down Knockturn Alley, so many people greeted Miriam that Sarah began to wonder if her idea of remaining inconspicuous—just two women walking along together—had been been doomed from the start. But although she got a few curious looks (_haven't seen that one before_, they seemed to say), no one bothered about her. Hopefully that meant her mother's spell was still intact. 

"What sort of letters are these?" Miriam asked quietly. "Common, ordinary ones? Or something more...private?"

"Private, I think," Sarah answered. "Why?"

"Then we won't want to go out into Diagon Alley. We'll want to go to the Shadow Post."

Miriam Snape led Sarah into a cobbler's shop. _Seven League Boots_, declared a sign over a display case containing a thoroughly battered pair with the large red tops folded down; the stated price would have been dear for the richest wizard in Britain. A set of stairs went up along the near wall, and Miriam proceeded to these without pausing to examine any of the shop's wares.

Four flights up, they came out in a dim and dusty room that smelled of bird droppings and feathers. The main source of light was the sunlight coming weakly through a bank of cages set into one wall, like an enormous dovecote, the avian occupants huddled down almost shapelessly on their perches. In a shadowy corner of the room sat a wizard so obese, Sarah wondered how he could get up and down the stairs. He heaved himself (somehow) out of his chair and approached the two women.

"Ah, Miriam is it?" He squinted badly.

"Aye, it's me, Hob. I've a friend with some messages to send."

Sarah handed over the two letters nervously. Hob held them up close to his nose and studied the addresses. When he named a price, Miriam spoke up in protest.

"That's three times what you'd ought to charge!"

"Times is rough," Hob said. "The Ministry's tightening things up. I got risks to take, too."

Sarah debated whether she was really meant to spend so much on the letters. Were their contents really so secret that the normal owl post wasn't safe? Or had Severus phrased things carefully enough, in his night-long writing session? "Maybe we should just go to the post office," Sarah said to Miriam.

The comment prompted a bargaining war between Miriam and Hob. Sarah listened in confusion and mild disbelief as Miriam managed to get the man to lower his price to half of what he first named.

"Well, cherub?" Miriam asked, finally. "Is that good enough for you?"

Still befuddled by Miriam's finesse, Sarah handed over the coins to Hob. He dropped them into a wooden box with no other opening (to all appearances) than the slot on top. Then he ambled with the letters toward the bank of cages. The birds to whom he was giving the letters, Sarah realized with amazement, were ravens. Hob took out a stubby wand and tapped each bird, whereupon it took on the appearance of a ragged-looking owl. He tripped some levers that allowed the outer door of each cage to open, and both birds took off.

"There you go," Hob grumbled. "Good day to you."

* * *

"What was that all about?" Sarah asked, as they made their way down the stairs. 

"Well, he doesn't give out the secrets of his trade, of course," Miriam said. "But to hazard a guess, I imagine that whatever method the Ministry uses to monitor owls doesn't pick up ravens."

"I didn't know the Ministry monitored owls," Sarah said, shaken. "Severus said something last fall about the post not being safe, but..."

"It's fairly random, from what I've gathered," Miriam said. "In the past it's just been to check and make sure all the mail carried by Ministry-owned owls goes through as it should. No snooping, at least officially. But from what rumors I've heard, there's been a lot more unofficial snooping since last summer, and of more than Ministry owls."

"I wish I had my own owl, all the same," Sarah sighed. Of course, if she'd had one, the events of the past two days might have turned out rather differently.

"You haven't a familiar?" Miriam asked.

"I had a cat, but it got hit by a Muggle lorry a couple of summers ago, and I didn't have the heart to replace it. I've always used Aunt Portia's owl." Sarah sighed.

Miriam gave her a sidelong look. "Tell me: is your Aunt Portia your mother's or your father's sister?"

"My mother's. I haven't seen my father's sister or her family in ages. Not since before my father died. My mother's family wouldn't let me," she added, still trying on the feel of being her father's loyal daughter. "I guess they didn't know his...associations...before my mother married him."

"So, did you break with your mother's family over your own...choice of a lover?" Miriam asked shrewdly.

"I guess you could say...they broke with me." Sarah frowned sheepishly.

"Hmmm. Well, owls are a bit dear," Miriam said, as if they'd been continuing to talk about that all along. "Cats are easily come by, though. At least your garden-variety cat. My Gypsy had kittens a couple of weeks back. You're welcome to one of them."

"Thank you, I'd love one," Sarah said, touched by Miriam's generosity.

They had descended to the street. "Come home with me and pick out your kitten. Caius'll not be home till past noon, and it's not eleven yet. Have a good bite while you help me get lunch, then duck out before the men get back." She smiled conspiratorially.

Sarah smiled back. She had not realized just how much she missed being in the company of another woman—an adult, not the silly girls with whom she shared a dorm room. The interruption of her heart-to-heart (if one could call it that) with McGonagall last week had been more stressful than she realized. She felt a wrenching regret for her relationship with her aunt, which would likely never be salvaged.

"Hey, Mum!" a voice above them called. Miriam paused and looked up, compelling Sarah to do the same. A young woman, a few years older than Sarah, waved from a first story window above Grimm's Groceries. She had dark, molasses-colored hair, and a narrow, pointed face on which her broad, friendly mouth seemed out of place.

"Cornelia!" Miriam waved back. "Do you need anything?"

"I need to borrow _Stewart's Household Spells_. The plumbing's going wonky again."

"Can you come by, or do you need to me to bring it?"

"I'll come by after lunch."

"Good, then." Miriam waved a farewell.

"You have a daughter?" Sarah asked, as they moved on. She was surprised and, to her chagrin, a little jealous; she had thought that perhaps she was the only other female in the family.

"Two," Miriam said. She took Sarah's arm again. "Both well married now. Cornelia's the elder, no children yet. Flora has a little girl with Martin Mantua, a tailor at Gladrags, out in Diagon Alley."

Not sure how to put the matter politely, Sarah decided to simply be blunt. "Are they Caius's?"

"Yes. Much to his chagrin." She chuckled faintly at Sarah's perplexed look. "He wanted a son of his own, of course, you see." Miriam sighed and her expression grew more somber. "After two daughters he was desperate enough to try a potion to make sure I produced a boy, though I warned him it wasn't safe to meddle with such things."

Sarah's hand had strayed involuntarily to her stomach, but Miriam's sharp look caused her to pretend she was merely smoothing out her clothes. Severus wouldn't have done such a thing; he hadn't wanted any sort of child to begin with. Miriam's story, though, could not possibly have a happy ending.

"Aurelius was stillborn," Miriam confirmed the supposition, in a quiet voice. There was less pain in it than Sarah would have thought, but it was present, nonetheless, like something seen from a far distance. Her lips pressed together tightly for a moment and the area around her mouth hardened. "That was enough of that, I told Caius. I was over thirty, by then, and mark my words, Sarah, there's no great joy in bearing a baby nine months when you reach that age. Nor had I any great fondness for the idea of suffering that over and over until Caius got his wish."

_Did you put him out of your bed?_ Sarah wondered in shock, although she would not have dared to ask. _Does he go to those girls? If he does, how do you endure it?_ She also found it more difficult yet to keep her hand from her stomach, contemplating a hundred nameless dangers—even aside from the ones she had been bracing herself against—that might end in her child's death.

Miriam went on with her own musings. "I daresay that if that's a boy," she whispered, "as I'm guessing it is, Caius may be a bit more kindly disposed toward you. He doesn't like to think that he and Severus will be the last of the Snapes. If you'll let me, I'll check you over when we get home."

* * *

The kittens were in a basket in Miriam's room. The mother cat, Gypsy, was a dusty grey with a patch of white at her throat, laying sprawled along one side of the basket with her teats showing, as proud as if she were the nursemaid to a duke. The kittens were more of a grab bag. There was a black one with a white bib, another grey one, a greyish tabby, and two that were all ugly patches of orange and black. Sarah picked up the black one—it was still quite wobbly and it meowed piteously at being taken from its mother and littermates. 

"That's the only male, that one," Miriam said. "They're too young yet to leave their mother, but I'll hold yours back until you can collect it."

Sarah cradled the kitten in her hands, feeling his down-soft fur, wincing at his tiny claws digging helplessly for a purchase that would let him escape. Gypsy chirruped, as if she were trying to call him back.

"I'd like him, please, if I may?" Sarah asked, still a little awed at Miriam's generosity. Pumpkin, her old cat, had come from a shop in Diagon Alley and had cost a fair sum, and here was Miriam, giving her one.

"Very good." Miriam said. "Have you a name in mind, so's I can get him used to it?"

Sarah held him up to her nose, trying to think in spite of his wailing. The sight of those Seven League Boots had put her in mind of the old story of Puss in Boots—the animagus, trapped in his animal form, who had helped a miller's son marry a princess. "Carabas," she said.

Miriam chuckled, as if she had caught the joke. "Carabas, then."

Sarah settled the kitten back into the basket next to his mother, who gave him a few perfunctory licks, which did not do much to quiet him. Only when he had begun burrowing up to her belly did he settle down again.

Out in the kitchen, Miriam set a half-dozen knives to peeling potatoes and put a pot of water on the big black stove to boil. Then she sliced up a cabbage head, and once all the potatoes were snug in the pot, she layered the cabbage over them. "That'll do," she said. "Now, let's see about you."

Sarah followed Miriam into the small sitting room. Or perhaps office was a better word, despite the sofa and chairs. The walls were lined with bookshelves, although most of the books on them appeared to be ledgers.

"First..." Miriam said, raising her hands and running them over Sarah's hair. "Ah, there." She held up a strand of hair to the light and examined both ends. Seeming to find one to her satisfaction, she took it to a desk in the corner. A tiny cauldron and fire pan stood on one side, and she ignited a fire there with her wand, selected a big square bottle from a collection on the shelf above the desk, and poured a large dollop of the yellowish liquid it contained into the cauldron.

Sarah moved closer, fascinated. "Is that Pregnancy Determination Solution?" She had read about it in her book, but since she had already known she was pregnant, it hardly seemed worth the effort to make it.

"Yes, it is," Miriam said distractedly. The solution was steaming in a trice, and Miriam used a long pair of tweezers to lower the end she'd selected into the liquid. Immediately, the steam began to constrict itself, twisting closer and closer around the strand of hair. Gradually it began to turn a lovely shade of blue. "A boy, as I thought."

"Yes, I knew," Sarah said.

"Did you?" Miriam asked, sounding slightly put out that Sarah had not mentioned this before.

"I didn't do a test," Sarah stammered. She decided not to mention that Severus had—probably this very one. What had he felt, she wondered, standing there alone in his workroom, watching the curling steam turn blue? "I just sort of knew."

"When did you guess?"

"From the very start, really."

"Good," Miriam concluded. "There's plenty of witches that haven't a bit of sensitivity for it—bad as Muggles. Now, when were your last courses?"

"Right after Halloween." She had wondered if the fright had brought them on; certainly the cramping had been worse than usual.

"And do your cycles run with the moon?"

"No."

"Long or short?"

"Long."

"So, you'll have conceived sometime in the latter part of November or early December. Does that sound right? Possible, I mean?"

"Yes." Sarah felt her face grow hot. She wondered again if Miriam had figured out that Sarah was still a student, not an official apprentice. She remembered those nights and weekend afternoons, sneaking breathlessly back and forth between Gryffindor Tower and the dungeons, in fear of being caught. There had been something of that old hazard again, last night, although the dangers had been different. _And I succumbed to them_, she thought. _I wanted them._ Sarah raised her hands to her face, an instinct to cover whatever it was telling.

Miriam chuckled. "If you _didn't_ enjoy it, I'd be worried. Are you willing to tell me: did he initiate the relationship or did you?"

"It was sort of...mutual." Sarah forced her hands down into her lap.

"Hmmm, that's promising at least. What about the child?"

"That wasn't...it was my idea," Sarah confessed.

"You got pregnant on purpose?" Miriam was looking at her more quizzically.

"Not exactly. I mean, I don't know the right spell or whatever to stop it from happening. So I let it happen."

"You don't know 'Tempus Conceptus'?' Miriam sounded surprised, and perhaps a little dubious.

"That was the one that M...that the medi-witch mentioned. But I don't know it. My mother...was dead...before I was old enough to need it, and my aunt didn't teach me."

Miriam bristled. "That's unconscionable! Do those high-born families expect that their precious daughters are born with their legs glued shut?"

For all her affection for Miriam, Sarah felt a sudden surge of loyalty, both to her class and to her Aunt Portia. "Maybe my aunt didn't know it herself. She was never married, so far as I know."

Miriam shook her head, as if this only confirmed her opinion.

"I'll be teaching it to you, as soon as it's needed again." Miriam regarded her carefully once more. "But surely a Potions apprentice knows how to end a pregnancy she doesn't want?"

Sarah looked down. "I didn't want to end it."

"And yet, I seem to recall you saying that you had no thought of marrying Severus either?"

"I didn't." Sarah kept her head down; she wasn't sure what more to say to defend herself.

"Sarah?" Miriam's forefinger was suddenly under her chin, forcing her to make eye contact. "It's all right, you know. Foolish, I grant you. Terribly foolish. But not beyond understanding. Both of your parents dead, before you even reached the cusp of womanhood. Obviously you had no brothers, but I take it you had no sisters either?"

"No."

"It's a difficult thing, to be so alone in the world." Maybe Miriam was speaking from her own experience, but Sarah had the odd feeling that she was talking about Severus. But Miriam let her chin go and was back to business. "So, the baby will come sometime in August. The latter part, more likely. Hard onto the beginning of school, isn't it? Have you two discussed that?"

Sarah shook her head. All those old unsolved worries about what would become of both their child and their relationship gave her gut an uncomfortable twinge, as if to remind her that the problems were, indeed, still there. And it suddenly occurred to her that it was altogether likely, if they came back here for the summer, that Miriam would be the midwife who helped her birth the baby. That was a far more appealing, Knockturn Alley and all, than the idea of giving birth under the stern care of Madam Pomfrey.

"You might want to consider talking to him about it," Miriam observed. "Well, lie down on the sofa, and let's see how you fare."

With much pushing and pulling of clothing, Sarah managed to end up supine on the sofa with her belly bared. Miriam, kneeling beside her, was whispering something under her breath—wandless magic, perhaps, since she'd laid her wand aside—and when she spanned the curve of Sarah's abdomen with her fingers, Sarah felt a tingle of magic.

"All seems well," Miriam said, after a long half-minute. "Have you felt him quicken yet?"

"Yes," Sarah said, unable to keep from smiling at the thought, even in this undignified position.

"Excellent. So," Miriam levered herself to her feet, "the best advice I can offer for the time being is to eat well, sleep well, and be careful about your potion-making."

Sarah rearranged herself and sat up. "Thank you. For watching out for me." She felt vaguely as if she ought to pay the woman something for her services, but she had a strong sense that Miriam might take offense if her niece-in-law attempted to give her money in exchange for kindness.

"You're family now, Sarah. Let's get lunch made up and I'll walk you home before Caius shows his face."

Back out in the kitchen, Miriam brought the fire down to the barest flame under the pot, evaporated the water inside it, plopped in a huge portion of butter, plenty of salt and pepper, and set a large potato masher to work. Before too long, with an eye on the clock, she scooped up a serving onto a dish, and offered it to Sarah along with a spoon.

Sarah realized, as she tasted it, that she'd had something like it before. It was rather like bubble-and-squeak, only boiled instead of fried. And it only lacked several ingredients of being like the colcannon she'd first encountered at school. It was tasty, nonetheless, and she said so. Noting Miriam's increasingly restless eye on the clock—it was a quarter of twelve—she finished it up quicker than she would have liked, and put her plate into the sink.

"Let's go then," Miriam said.

* * *

"No one in the family will tell anyone else, will they?" Sarah asked, as they descended the stairs. 

"What do you mean?"

"About me? About the baby?"

"What? Gossip about Severus's private business?" Miriam snorted. "Laws, as if even Caius would dare to do that!" She looked so troubled that Sarah had to ask:

"Is Caius _afraid_ of him?"

They had reached the bottom of the stairs, but Miriam paused with her hand on the door handle. "Not _of_ him, really. But we're all afraid of meddling in his affairs." Miriam studied her sharply again. "Aren't you?"

Yesterday, Sarah would have known how to answer: _Yes, terrified_. The small corner of her mind that was still the girl she'd been was screaming it, but it was of no productive use, and she silenced it.

"What choice do I have?" Sarah asked.

Miriam's mouth thinned a little, but her eyes grew lighter. "You're no coward, are you?" She squeezed Sarah's arm.

They were silent, at first, as they walked back, Miriam setting a rapid pace which reminded Sarah of the time. The silence forced Sarah to think, to wonder: what did Miriam really think of her? She had been more than kind, but was that just her way? Or did she have the genuine fondness for her new niece that she seemed to have? Did Sarah's involvement in Severus's dangerous game make Miriam afraid for her, or of her? Was she considered part of the affairs that they dared not meddle with?

"As I told you before, come to me if you ever need help...with anything," Miriam said, when they reached the house.

"Thank you, Aunt Miriam," Sarah said, throwing her arms around the older woman, hoping that somehow her gratitude and her goodwill would come through in her embrace. "You have been so good to me. Better than I deserve."

"Laws, what makes you say that?" Miriam sounded, for the first time that Sarah had known her, a little unsure. They stepped back from each other, and Miriam's expression was guardedly puzzled.

"Just...appearing out of nowhere like this. Married to him. Pregnant."

Miriam chuckled, although her face did not lose all of its anxiety. "Are those the least of your worries?"

Sarah gave a world-weary sigh. "Those are the _best _of my worries."

"Dear cherub," Miriam said, laying a hand on her arm. "Then hold to them. And to him."

Sarah nodded, her throat too full of tears to answer. Another quick squeeze, and Miriam was walking away.

* * *

**A/N:  
**_Jellicle Cats are black and white,  
Jellicle Cats are rather small;  
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,  
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul._  
(T. S. Eliot) 

If you are a lover of cats, I recommend (if you can find it), the picture book _Gypsy_ by Kate Seredy. The most realistic pictures of cats, in all their moods, that I have ever seen. Plus a storyline fit to curl the hair of modern feminists. ;)


	33. Ch 32: If Pride Will Let Her Return

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Who owns Harry Potter? Not me. Who graciously allows us to play with her creations? The lady who owns Harry Potter. (You Know Who!)

**A/N:** I'm glad you all enjoyed that little break in the gloom and doom. Much gratitude to my wonderful reviewers: Darla, AlanaRose12, lucidity, TessaCilory, Owlbait, Aiden2, BradyB66, Kay50, cecelle, Lady Whitehart and The Heretic. On this chapter, I also owe a deep debt to Lady Whitehart, cecelle and Swtbrier for their valiant efforts at helping me keep the characters in character—hat's off to you, ladies.

Darla: He was referring to her ill-fated lingerie.

Aiden2: Everyone who knew the truth is dead, so we won't find out more in this story. I might write a story someday about Calpurnia Snape, but it would be very, very dark.

The Heretic: I have given quite a bit of thought to the names, trying to make them as much like canon names as possible. BTW, 'Sarah' means 'princess.'

We return to a little bit of stress, but not as much angst and definitely not as much gloom. It's time for our lovers to learn to work together a bit toward their common goal.

* * *

**Chapter 32: If Pride Will Let Her Return To Me, Her Teacher**

As Sarah climbed the narrow stairs, she heard sounds coming from inside a couple of the flats which suggested that the working girls had found lunchtime customers. She squirmed inwardly, remembering this morning. She quickened her pace and, upon reaching the door of Severus's flat, hastily lifted the wards and ducked inside.

"Who's there?" Severus called out from the bedroom. He sounded less groggy than she would have thought. She was chagrined at having woken him (he'd only been sleeping three hours at the most), but then she realized that she probably would have done so no matter how quietly she'd come in. He slept as lightly as someone obsessed with wards could be expected to.

"It's Sarah," she called. She laid her cloak aside and slipped into the bedroom. He had risen up on his elbows, wand held ready to attack an intruder. His eyes were rimmed with red. "Go back to sleep," she begged. "The letters are sent."

He let himself fall back to the bed, letting his eyelids fall shut. "I suppose you managed your little jaunt without any trouble?"

"Not a bit." She sat on the side of the bed and put her hand on his. "I hope you know that your aunt is a wonderful person."

The corner of his mouth twisted, but he didn't answer.

"I'm going to sit in the kitchen and read. I'll try to let you sleep."

His response was to pull a pillow over his face.

Smirking quietly, she left him to it.

* * *

He came out of the bedroom about two o'clock in the afternoon, wearing the sort of scowl that Sarah remembered from first-thing-in-the-morning Potions classes. She hurried to make him some tea. 

Bringing the teapot back to the table to steep, Sarah saw him looking absently at the Herbology text she had been studying. She set the pot down, then sat down herself. She had totted up in her head the amount she'd spent that morning, and now she gave him a report about it before he could even ask.

"Miriam took me to the Shadow Post," Sarah said. "I was worried that it was too much."

He pressed a hand to his forehead, as if it still ached. "I was exceedingly careful in what I wrote."

"I didn't peek to find out."

"Ah yes, you could have, couldn't you?" He grimaced. "I suppose that would have saved me the effort of telling you." He sighed and began tracing his lips with his middle finger.

"You realize," he said, "that it is no longer safe to attempt to hide our relationship from the Dark Lord. Or at least the fact that I have been your mentor. Although the rest _will_ eventually come out, I don't doubt. I've tried to minimize, for the time being, whatever damage Lucius has done. But once you are safely back at Hogwarts, I shall have to approach the Dark Lord and explain my actions. There is a hazard," he continued, as if in response to Sarah's increasingly anxious expression. "But I believe I can convince him that I had good reasons for remaining silent about you. The biggest danger, of course, is that he will command me to bring you before him. But I see now that that was probably inevitable. Certainly from the moment you threatened Draco."

"It was such a stupid thing to do," Sarah groaned, folding her arms tightly.

"In hindsight, yes. But at the time it served a useful enough purpose. And it also proved that you _are_ able to put on that mask when necessary. Even I found it difficult to doubt you, as I watched you in the Pensieve. And what you did once, you can do again. It is _in_ you to do it."

Sarah nodded, but she was frowning, and he saw it.

"I thought you had made up your mind to this?" he said sharply.

"I have. But I'm still afraid. What if that persona becomes the real me? What if I forget who I am?"

His eyes slid away from hers. "I won't pretend it won't change you. Indeed, it already has to some degree. Are you able to recognize that?" He fixed her in his gaze again.

"Yes," she answered. "That's why I'm afraid."

"As long as you can remember," he said slowly, "who you were, you won't lose yourself entirely."

"Who I was _when?_" she asked. "Before I became one of Umbridge's toadies? Before I married you? Before I came down to the dungeon to sleep with you? Before my parents died?" Her voice began to crack, and she lowered her face into her arms on the table for a moment. Finally, regaining control, she raised her head. "I'm not sure I was ever really innocent. Almost from the time I can remember, I was a pawn for both sides in my parents' personal little war."

He grimaced.

She sat up straight, twitching restlessly, clenching her hands together on the tabletop. "I'm afraid for Severian. I can understand why my mother kept putting charms on me." She let one hand stray to press against her abdomen.

"Don't," he warned, "even _think_ of doing such a thing!"

"I _won't_," she returned. "But now I understand why she did. And now I need to protect him even from myself." Her voice quavered.

"Stop it, Sarah!" He gripped her arm hard, across the table. "This serves no purpose!"

"I'm sorry." She struggled to pull herself together. Finally she begged, "Please hold me."

Somehow, she was on her feet (although her knees were none too sure of the idea), and he was there, and she was in his arms. Safe. What a splendid illusion that was! Worthy of a prize in _Witch Weekly's_ yearly 'Magic on Display' contest. Except that no one else would ever be aware of it. "I'm sorry," she said again, still quivering. "I didn't mean to break down."

"You've had every reason to," he said, swaying her gently. "But I need your strength, Sarah. I don't want to lose you. Not now."

"Tell me lies," she whispered. "So I won't be afraid."

"What lies?" he asked, as if he had never told a lie in his life.

"Tell me that it won't...taint Severian, for me to go before him, for me to pretend..."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I don't know." She buried her face against his shoulder.

"How could that possibly occur?" She felt him shake his head. "Darkness is hardly a _contagion_. It's a temptation, a choice."

Sarah took a deep, ragged breath. "Promise me you'll help me remember who I am."

"Why would I not?"

Sarah hesitated. "You said once that you didn't want to corrupt me. But every time I lose a little more innocence...you're glad. Sorry, too," she said, as he stiffened. "But glad."

He held her tighter. "I don't suppose I can have it both ways, can I?" he murmured ruefully.

"Severus, who do you want me to be?" _Not a good question, perhaps._

He said nothing for a long time. It was a silence that began to make her nervous, pondering all the things he might say, all the things he might want to say but would not. Then, finally, he answered, "Just _Sarah_."

Whatever answer she had hoped for, it was not that. It ought to have been a perfectly satisfactory answer. It ought to have meant that he loved her. Probably it did. But she also sensed that it allowed for the possibility that, if the Dark Lord triumphed, Severus Snape, the loyal Death Eater, would be content to have Sarah Darkglass Snape for his companion, in private as well as in the Dark Lord's presence. And that did not satisfy her at all.

"Promise me you won't let me forget..." she wanted to say _myself_, but that was no longer a safe thing to ask "...how to be a good person. No matter what happens," she entreated, pressing her fingers into his back as if that would emphasize how important it was.

"A good person?" he sighed into her hair. "How could I teach you to be a _good person?_ I have never been that. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, but never..."

"You were a child once," she interrupted.

"I was no more innocent as a child than you were. Less so. Do you think I hesitated to use the hexes my uncle taught me? The first spell he taught me when he gave me my wand was for killing vermin by crushing them. I was supposed to learn control that way—by varying the speed and the force of the spell. He offered me a Knut for every ten flies I killed, and two for five rats. I had enough pocket money for sweets to bribe even a scrawny bastard's way into any gang I wanted to run with for the week. But it wasn't just the money. I enjoyed watching them die, knowing _my_ power was killing them. Gods, why am I telling you this?" He rocked her back and forth in his arms.

"Because you can," she said. When he paused, suddenly and coldly, in his soothing motions, she added, "I don't mean that badly. I mean that you don't have to keep secrets from me now."

He began to laugh, mirthlessly. "Oh, Sarah. It isn't that easy."

"Seven is too young for a wand," she went on, ignoring him. "Severian won't have a wand until he's at least nine."

"And I suppose that's how old you were?"

"Yes."

"I take it that's why your mother left?"

Sarah considered this. She said, amazed, "I suppose it is. I didn't realize it then. She took it away from me, of course, when we went to live with Aunt Portia, because I wasn't supposed to have a wand until I went to Hogwarts. She bought me a new one, then. I don't know what she did with my old one. But she must have been afraid that, with a wand, my father could teach me stronger Dark spells."

"Did he?"

Sarah nodded into his shoulder. "A few. I tried to forget them. I did, really, until you started teaching me again."

"Are you ready for another lesson?"

"Occlumency? Or Dark magic?"

"Dark magic, I think, this time. You're doing well enough at Occlumency. When I return from speaking to the Dark Lord," his voice wavered slightly, adding the unspoken _if I return_, "I'll put the memory in the Pensieve for you to watch. What you require now is experience in feeling Dark power." He let her go and stepped back from her, looking down at the table.

"Goodness, the tea!" Sarah said. "It'll be unbearably strong."

"I need it strong." He rubbed his eyes. "Get the milk. And another saucer."

Sarah retrieved the pitcher from the cold cupboard, which Severus had put back in operation when they bought groceries. The sugar bowl was already on the table.

After adding a generous portion of both to his cup, which Sarah then filled with tea, he took it up and stepped away to the window. "Pour some milk into the spare saucer and dissolve three lumps of sugar in it."

Once she had done so, he asked, "Do you know a spell to curdle milk?"

It was one of the earliest spells her father had taught her. Simple wandless spells for petty revenge against an enemy. She took a deep breath and murmured the words. The milk and sugar mixture swirled and took on an unpleasant odor.

He opened both halves of the casement, as wide as they would go.

Immediately, she saw where he was going with the lesson. But she said nothing at first. Instead, she got a cup and saucer for herself. When she reached for the pitcher, however, she found that her spell had been a little too strong; the effect had spilled over, and all the milk was spoiled. She made do with sugar, grimacing at the black intensity.

It seemed a long time until a fly buzzed into the room. Sarah had finished her tea and was staring at the leaves.

"Did you take Divination?" she asked.

He snorted. "Rot."

"That's what I thought, too, although Aunt Portia always used to read the leaves. Tall, dark stranger sort of thing. But I don't know how." She set her cup and saucer down. "What's the spell?"

"Obtero."

Sarah pulled out her wand. She shut her eyes for a moment. _It's a fly. You'd swat it easily enough with a flyswatter_.

_You must **never** kill with magic, Sarah!_ Her aunt's voice, when she had asked why they couldn't use a spell to get rid of flies and mosquitoes. _Goodness, Julia, what has he taught the girl?_

Her father's voice. _Magic is a tool, Sarah. The power to achieve what you desire, as much as your hands, your voice, your mind_.

Swallowing, she opened her eyes. The buzzing had gone silent. No, there it was, diving between the sink and the table. She lifted her wand and took a breath.

"_Obtero!_"

The buzzing ended on a surprised note. Then, after a moment, it began faintly again, from the floor. Severus stalked over, as she gingerly approached the fluttering black speck. He crouched down to examine it. Sarah remained standing; she did not want to see the results of her handiwork at any closer range.

"You held back," he accused.

"I couldn't help it," she said.

"Oh, and what has your hesitation accomplished? Prolonging its suffering? Is that what you wanted?"

Sarah's eyes prickled. "No."

"Then finish what you began," he ordered, ruthlessly.

She raised her wand again and pointed it at the floor. More firmly. "_Obtero!_"

The buzzing stopped.

He prodded the dead fly with his finger, then picked up gingerly and took it to the bin.

"I expect you will be less cruel next time," he said, brutally enough that her desire to flee for comfort into his arms was crushed quicker than the fly had been. "While we wait for another, I'll help you study your Herbology."

He picked up her book, flipped through it, and began firing questions at her that forced her mind onto her Herbology N.E.W.T. and away from what she had done. After a while, the sound of buzzing intruded again. He glanced up, his lip curling, then asked about the care of Venomous Tentacula. Sarah answered automatically, then lifted her wand.

A quick death. That was all the mercy she could give. Probably more than a fly deserved, but she didn't want to hear that faint, helpless buzzing again. The sound of dying.

"_Obtero!_"

Silence.

"What are the four primary properties of Blood Mallows?" he said, as if he had noticed nothing.

By the time they stopped for supper, she had killed seven flies. It had gotten easier, and although she still held the frightening feeling of dark power at bay, it was there, trying to caress the edges of her mind. She could understand why a boy who was powerless within his own family had savored it, but it still sickened her. _It is below Malcolm Darkglass's daughter to kill flies_, she thought, and wished she hadn't. But it gave her a focus for her disdain that made her feel like her father's daughter. Without enjoying meting out death. And that was all that was necessary.

Severus closed the windows and disposed of the milk before they went out. They had curry again, which made her feel better, and put fresh milk into the cold cupboard. Then he set her questions in Astronomy until the candle began guttering.

He shut the book with a snap. "Get your cloak."

Restraining herself from asking questions, she did as he said. To her surprise, they went up instead of down. Two flights up, the stairs ran out, and they had to resort to a ladder, which led up to a disturbingly dark and cobwebby attic, stuffed full of shapeless masses (which remained shapeless, even when Severus lit up his wand) among the few identifiable boxes and bits of furniture. Sarah let him take the lead, shrinking against him from the brush of spider silk on her face and hands. She was sure she would scream if she felt any skittering. Thankfully, she didn't.

Finally they came out through a small door onto a narrow balcony off the back gable end of the house. Severus swung over the railing at one end, onto the relatively flat roof of the warehouse next door. He lifted and steadied her as she attempted the same maneuver, then took her hand and drew her out of the shadows into the center of the roof.

"Not very helpful for Astronomy, I suppose," he said.

He was right. Scarcely any stars were discernible; even the one currently visible planet was dim in the western sky. It was only in lowering the eyes that the beauty of the night appeared: lights and lights and lights, as far as she could see. Muggle lights, of course. Little fires burning inside glass balls: a curious thing for Muggles to have come up with, and hardly to be believed if she hadn't seen it herself in the village with Michael. They marked out, in regular rows, the square shapes of tall buildings. In other places, whole edifices seemed to be bathed in radiance. Down in the streets, the lamps on the Muggle cars went to and fro like glowworms trapped in a maze.

Knockturn and Diagon Alleys made two curiously darker lines amid the rest. Muggles, of course, wouldn't be able to see them at all. But Sarah could, and she pressed closer to Severus and hid her face against his arm.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Just...our world seems...so small, in the middle of all this."

"Hmm, I never thought of it like that."

"How did you think of it?"

He said nothing for a moment, only looking around at the skyline. He pressed her hand a little tighter. "The first time I saw it, I thought somehow the stars had fallen from heaven. It was the most beautiful magic I'd ever seen." He snorted softly. "Of course, it wasn't magic. But still..."

Sarah raised her head and tried to see it. Yes, it did seem so. The grey-black canopy of the night, so denuded of the diamond wonders she knew, seemed to have shaken off its stars like a fall of leaves, and they had drifted all around Wizarding London, which stood uncovered among them like a low, dark wall.

"It _is_ beautiful," she said, holding his hand tightly. "Better than Astronomy. I'm so sick of Astronomy. Even Herbology, for that matter."

"Not Potions?" he asked snidely.

"Could I ever be sick of Potions?" she asked, turning to him and slipping her free hand around him.

"After another twenty years you may find it possible," he said sardonically.

"_Am_ I going to do well enough on my Potions N.E.W.T.?"

"I thought I told you not to worry."

Sarah let her head fall against his chest.

"What will happen if I don't qualify for the apprenticeship? What will happen even if I do?"

He was silent for a long time. Long enough that she raised her head, hoping to decipher something from his expression. But either it was too dark to discern enough to guess, or else his expression was simply unreadable.

"You _do_ know how unstable things are at present?" he asked tightly.

"I...suppose so," she said, looking away.

He pressed a hand to the side of her head, forcing her to face him again. "At any moment," he said harshly, "my efforts could be discovered, which would result, probably not so immediately as I would wish, in my death."

She made her eyes look anywhere but into his. _I don't want to think about that_. But she didn't dare to say so. It was a fact of the life they were leading, and there was nothing to be done about it.

He went on, "It is also possible that the Dark Lord may devise his own plans for your future, against which I may find myself powerless to act. In that event, the fact of our marriage may prove to be the only thing that will protect you, _if_ he should choose to acknowledge it. But that's our ace, and I don't want it revealed until absolutely necessary. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She nodded against his chest; she had drawn close to him again during this last speech. _So much for being able to be known as his wife anywhere_.

"You _will_ do excellently on your Potions N.E.W.T. Otherwise you will be living here in my flat, full time, since I have no place else to put you. And neither of us would be pleased with that, I think."

Sarah smirked. "Well, I would enjoy your aunt's company." She felt his back stiffen a little. "But I do enjoy your company more." She held him tighter, felt him relax slightly. Then, more quietly, she asked, "What about Severian?"

Silence again. "I supposed from the beginning that you intended to foster him during your apprenticeship."

"I did. But that was when I thought that my Aunt Portia would do it. Now I haven't anyone I would trust him with."

"When the apprenticeship was originally proposed, Dumbledore suggested that a house-elf or two could be assigned the duty of watching him."

"Keep him at Hogwarts, you mean?" Sarah's heart swelled with a combination of hope and disbelief at the unexpected suggestion. "How would that be possible? How would we keep him hidden? We can't possibly keep him shut up in the dungeons for the first two years of his life. And what about Umbridge?"

"Yes, well, there are some substantial difficulties. Not the least of which is the possibility that the Dark Lord will insist upon using him as a hostage for your good behavior. In which case you may be obliged to foster him with your _other _relatives."

"The Notts?" Sarah did not hide her distaste for the idea; the distaste almost hid her fear. "He would be treated horribly! And I'm not just talking about being raised in a Dark Wizarding family. My Aunt Fiona despises me, and has done, probably since I was born."

"I didn't say I approved of the situation," Severus said, low and cold. "I am only suggesting what you need to be prepared for."

Sarah shuddered. "The flat is looking better and better."

"You're willing to sacrifice your apprenticeship?" His disbelief was tinged with anger. "Live in Knockturn Alley? Take care of an infant entirely on your own? See me once a month during term time, if that?" His voice had gotten progressively sharper as he went on, and she couldn't help reacting with her own snarkiness.

"Isn't that how a good little wife ought to behave?" she asked snidely. She went on, more seriously, "It isn't as if I can't still study. And if that's what I have to do to protect Severian..."

"You aren't listening to me, Sarah!" He pushed her to arm's length. "There may be no way of doing that to your liking. Not now. I like it as little as you do. But I want both of you alive. Other things can be repaired; not that." With a look of anguish, he pulled her close again.

Sarah thought of other things that could not be repaired: her child so thoroughly corrupted in his infancy that he would end up as much of a snot as young Malfoy; the mark on Severus's arm; just such a mark, if were she compelled to take it, on her own; the shadow that was growing over her with every Dark spell she spoke.

"Maybe I should have taken Divination," she said quietly. "It would be nice, right now, to know the future."

* * *

**A/N:** I admit it: that last line was written in my own extreme frustration of waiting for the release of HBP. I fear this last week will be more anxious than all the weeks before it have been. So very, very close...argh! 

The next chapter after this will be the last I'll post before HBP comes out. I promise it will be nicely cliffhangy, to tide you over until I resume writing, which will be just as soon as I can figure out how the information in HBP will or will not impact the planned outline of the rest of the story. I do not intend to give up on this story, regardless of HBP, so never fear.


	34. Ch 33: All That You Dreamed I Could

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter universe, with its characters, situations, and master plotline, all belong to J. K. Rowling (and her designated rights-holders). The verses that accompany this chapter were written by Richard Farina (more info in the post-chapter notes).

**A/N:** First, before I say anything else, I would like to express my sympathy to my British readers concerning the London terror attacks of last week. Also, my condolences to any readers who have been personally affected by these events. At such times, I truly wish that _our_ world's major evils could be stopped by a seventeen-year-old boy. :(

To my wonderful reviewers—cecelle, lucidity, Owlbait, Sammy Cyanide, AlanaRose12, Darla, Kay50 and BradyB66—many, many thanks! And a special nod to Owlbait for some helpful input on this chapter.

Sammy Cyanide: I suspect that by the time Severus is the teenager that Harry saw, he'll have graduated from using Obtero on flies to something nastier, like Avada Kedavra.

Darla: Wow, thanks for pointing out the Romeo-and-Juliet thing. I hadn't caught that somehow.

Owlbait: The way I see it, killing with magic is perilously close to being able to kill with a thought. Such things are frighteningly prone to abuse—a very slippery slope indeed. In the books, we have seen a definite taboo against killing with magic. Even Buckbeak was to be beheaded, not zapped.

This will be the last chapter posted before the release of_ Half-Blood Prince_. This is also currently the last chapter I have written, since I really wanted to know clearly where the rest of the story is able to go (and still stay canon) before I wrote the chapter which must, of necessity, follow this one. I will try to resume posting as soon as I am able to determine what effect the book will have on my plans for the rest of the story. That may take a week or more, but I doubt any of you will notice, since you'll be reading and re-reading _Half-Blood Prince_. :)

**

* * *

Chapter 33: All That You Dreamed I Could**

_For I will take you out by the hand  
And lead you to the hunter  
And I will show you thunder and steel  
And I will be your teacher_

Severus carefully placed the Pensieve between them, as they sat at the little table in front of the fire in his chambers at Hogwarts. With the tip of his wand, he drew a silver strand of memory out of his temple and let it fall into the stone bowl, where it swirled slowly and sinuously. Snakelike, Sarah thought. Which was only too appropriate.

* * *

Severus had been summoned sooner than they supposed. On Friday night, he'd had to leave her alone in the flat to answer the burning pain on his forearm. He had not been at all pleased to go. His fear that Lucius or another confederate might try to use the opportunity of his absence to get at Sarah was realistic enough that she'd sat on the bed with her wand drawn the whole time he was gone. Worse still (from _her_ perspective) was his refusal, once he'd returned, to tell her anything that had happened. 

"I do not want your experience with the Pensieve biased by anything I might say. When you go before him, you will not know in advance what will occur or what the outcome will be. This trial with the Pensieve will be of very little use in preparing you to meet the Dark Lord if you go into it with assumptions about what you will see."

"You're not glum enough for it to have gone really badly," she'd pointed out, annoyed. On the other hand, he did not seem especially pleased either.

"_No assumptions_, Sarah. We'll go back to Hogwarts tomorrow instead of Sunday. You'll know soon enough."

And now it was Saturday afternoon, and she was about to find out.

_And I will show you grotto and cave  
__And sacrificial altar  
And I will show you blood on the stone  
__And I will be your mentor_

"Before you begin," he said, "prepare yourself as if you were, in fact, being brought before him. Wrap yourself in the necessary identity. I want to be able to look in your eyes first, and see nothing that should not be there."

She drew a deep breath. She had been practicing all week. _Compartmentalize your mind_, he had instructed. And so she had done: just as she kept one identity for the classroom, now, each time she cast a Dark spell, she was careful to do so as her father's daughter. Just as the part of herself she called 'Sarah Darkglass' had never been moments from death in the Hogsmeade graveyard, the part of herself she called 'Sarah Darkglass Snape' had never accepted the change in her circumstances after her mother's escape. It troubled her, to be able to do Dark magic without flinching. But as long as it was only as her father's daughter that she could do so, and as long as she could fold up that identity like a robe when she was finished with it, just as she did her classroom self, she could feel that there was still a core of something good and true and real inside her.

_"Sometimes,"_ she'd whispered to him one night, _"I feel as if I'll go mad, being so many people at once."_

_"Focus on the moment, Sarah. Only on the moment. I know how difficult it is, but you mustn't think of it as you are doing. You mustn't try to hold all of it at once."_

Sarah brought the mantle of the necessary identity around her. This Sarah was as excited as she was frightened at the prospect of seeing the Dark Lord for herself. _My father was his loyal servant_, she assured this self, _and he will likely look with favor on me_. She lifted her eyes and met her mentor's.

"_Legilimens!_" he said. She felt him probing through these thoughts—every twist of the probe brought an answering thought that must satisfy him.

"Now," he ordered, "the Pensieve."

Sarah touched the tip of her wand to the eddies of silver light. The picture cleared. Severus Snape was stepping forwards from a small, rough semi-circle of wizards to bow low. As if she were, in a strange sense, mimicking his motion, she lowered her face into the Pensieve.

_And death will be our darling  
And fear will be our name_

She found herself in the room she had been looking down upon: a drawing room, her instincts said, so thoroughly draped with heavy velvet curtains it was impossible to say where the windows actually were, if there were any at all. The room was lit very dimly, especially around the edges, so that it was difficult to tell even what dark color the curtains might be. Only a few candles in ornate stands and the flickering of a fire in a large fireplace provided what light there was. At one end of the room, a low dais had been set up, and a fancy armchair, which gave every appearance of having been modified to its present grotesque baroque configuration, stood upon it.

Seated in the chair was a being who could be none other than the Dark Lord himself. Sarah was somewhat prepared by the description Harry Potter had given to _The Quibbler_, but the reality was monstrous enough that her persona faltered. She tried to plug the breach with fear, giving it a tinge of awe that was not difficult to manufacture.

The Dark Lord was almost skeletally thin, and his face was whiter than any skull. Horribly long, equally white fingers caressed the head of a huge snake, the body of which was curled around the legs of the chair. There was something odd about the man's skin, as if—should it be seen in a brighter light—it would prove to be a bit _scaly_. And where a nose ought to be, there was a flat bulge with two thin slits, like the nostrils of a snake. Red eyes with cat-like pupils, almost glowing in the dimness, studied the man who stood before him. Sarah moved carefully to one side, as if she were taking the furthest place on that side of the semi-circle of Death Eaters. It provided the best vantage point.

"Now, you assured me, Severus," the Dark Lord said, in a high, cold voice, "that you would provide a fuller explanation of your...involvement with the Darkglass girl. You see, Lucius did bring her to my attention first. Really, Severus, it disappoints me to think that you would put your very useful position at Hogwarts in jeopardy."

"My Lord, there will be no danger of discovery," Severus replied, still bowing deeply. "Provided that no one in the Circle betrays me." He shot a fairly obvious sidelong look in the direction of Lucius Malfoy.

Sarah spared a glance to study the Death Eaters present. Most of them were only vaguely familiar—faces that had been plastered on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ a few months ago. There was only one woman among them: a dark-haired vixen...or at least she had been once; there were remnants of beauty, hints in those heavily-lidded eyes that she might still be capable of seduction, but the bloom had passed, and the evil of her choices had imprinted as harsh a look upon her face as upon any man's there.

Others in the circle, she knew. Lucius Malfoy, for one, of course. But she also recognized her uncle, Franklin Nott—a stoop-shouldered man whose unassuming demeanor gave little hint of his true character. And another of her father's former friends stood there: Mortimer Mulciber, whom she remembered chiefly for his tendency to pat her on the head during his frequent visits, back when she was still very small, before the Dark Lord's fall. She hadn't known his name (or remembered it, at least) until she read of his escape from Azkaban.

The Dark Lord laughed...a horrible sound that laid bare all its hearers to its mockery, whether they were its target or not. "I have already informed...certain of my devoted but foolish servants," his red eyes swept the room, and Sarah quailed slightly, even though she knew she was not really there, and he could not really see her, "of the displeasure I would feel if your situation were compromised. Of course," his eyes returned to Severus, "you would do nothing to bring that displeasure upon yourself, would you, Severus?"

"No, indeed, My Lord. I assure you, there has been no reason for suspicion among the students or staff. If I find that Lucius's son has dared to spread ugly rumors among his Housemates, I shall put an end to them immediately upon my return to Hogwarts. It is fortunate," Severus said, with another glance over at Malfoy, "that the boy went home for the holiday, so his father will be able to correct him before can make any further...mistakes."

The look on Lucius Malfoy's face was venomous. He burst out, "Master, there would have been no concerns for Draco to bring to my attention, had the Darkglass girl not been so indiscreet herself."

"My Lord," Severus interrupted, inclining his head further toward the Dark Lord, "I fear you have been presented with a false impression of the girl's encounters with Draco. The boy appears to have developed an unfortunate dislike for Miss Darkglass, undoubtedly due to House rivalry. He was already threatening to spread rumors about her—rumors for which, I must add, he had no proof whatsoever—when she felt compelled to make it clear to him that it would be wiser not to cross her."

"Yes, yes," the Dark Lord said impatiently, waving the long fingers of one bone-white hand as if in dismissal. "I see that both have made regrettable mistakes in dealing with one another. But I have no time to waste unraveling competing versions of a petty argument between children. Tell me of the young lady herself, Severus. Is she loyal to me? As loyal as she suggested to young Malfoy?"

"She is loyal, My Lord."

"And how did you become aware of this, Severus? Nott assures me that she has not revealed her loyalties to her family. Yet you say she has been reclaimed. I see, from what Lucius has revealed to me, that you must, in fact, have played some role in that."

Sarah saw a small, vicious smile crease the corners of her husband's mouth, and she knew that Lucius must have handed Severus exactly the tool he needed.

"I have indeed played a role, My Lord. The girl, as Nott may or may not have told you, was taken into hiding by her mother. Malcolm, it seems, did not make the wisest choice of a wife. He was unable to dominate her into acceptance of our cause, and in the end she slipped free of him, taking his daughter with her. And then, from what the girl has told me, she betrayed her husband to the Aurors."

There was a low murmur around the room. None of them, perhaps, needed to fear such a close betrayal, but they all knew enough about treachery to be astonished that someone not in their own camp—"_she was_ _a Hufflepuff?_" was one of the murmurs—was capable of engaging in it so heinously. Sarah wondered how many of them had known her mother at school.

"I see. Is the woman still living?" the Dark Lord asked, in a cold tone that suggested that, if she were, she would soon be no longer.

"Apparently she experienced a degree of...remorse." Severus twisted the word. Sarah found her own gut twisting along with it. "She took her own life."

Now there was laughter, none of it very loud, except for the female Death Eater. Sarah felt her persona slipping again, and struggled to remember her resentment at her mother's weakness in having taken the poison her father had sent as his last gift.

"And the girl?"

"Sarah Darkglass was already at Hogwarts before her mother's death. She has been under the guardianship of her mother's sister. She was sorted into Gryffindor House and, to all appearances, had forgotten her father and his family as entirely as they had forgotten her."

"That did not prove to be the case?" The Dark Lord sounded a bit impatient.

"No, My Lord. Apparently the rumors of your return last summer brought her thoughts back to her _true_ heritage. She found it difficult, of course, to resume her study of the Dark Arts while living with her aunt. Once at school, however, she sought out a mentor."

"She had no business going to you!" Franklin Nott burst out. "Why would she?"

"Indeed," the Dark Lord agreed. "Your true loyalties are meant to remain a secret at Hogwarts, are they not? Was that not our agreement?"

"Yes, My Lord. But she did not know my loyalties when she first approached me. She had very few resources: obviously she could not learn the Dark Arts from anyone in Gryffindor, and the students in Slytherin House have always viewed her as a blood traitor. Dolores Umbridge, however useful her presence at Hogwarts may be to our cause, originally gave no impression of actually being willing to teach her subject. That is, as I have reported, changing. However, that is beside the point. Miss Darkglass knew, by common rumor among the students, of my interest in the Dark Arts. She approached me because she felt she had no other option."

"That is absurd!" Franklin Nott said. "Why would she not come to her own family, in preference to...to _Snape_? Especially since she would know where _we_ stand!"

"Perhaps you can best answer that for yourself, Nott," Severus said, his voice dropping to deadly silkiness. He addressed the Dark Lord reverentially again: "My Lord, none of those who rightfully had an interest in the girl have ever attempted to reclaim her for our cause. When Nott reported that his brother-in-law had been martyred—killed by the Aurors who were attempting to arrest him for his loyalty to you—was even a single word spoken about Malcolm's daughter?"

"Why did _you_ say nothing, then?" Lucius Malfoy broke in. "What game are you playing at, Severus?"

"Silence!" the Dark Lord ordered. "Lucius, I wish to hear Severus's explanation without these continual interruptions." He returned his fearsome attention to the man bowing before him. "Severus, you would have done better to tell me of the girl when Nott revealed her father's fate, would you not?"

"Yes, perhaps, My Lord. But her training has been sufficiently irregular that she begged me to help her achieve some greater level of competence before she was brought to your attention."

"She wished to..._impress_ me? Or was it _you_ who wished to impress me?"

"Master, I shared in her desire to make her a more effective servant before her presentation to you." Severus kept his head down.

"I see." There was a note in his voice that suggested that he saw _everything_. "I will examine her _now_. A mistake with the sapling may spoil the tree. Since her father died in faithful service, it is for Lord Voldemort to judge what the girl's future will be."

"Yes, My Lord." Severus bent even lower. "When shall I bring her?"

"I understand that this is the Easter break at Hogwarts. I daresay it would be easier to slip her out of the school now than at any other time. Particularly if she has not been at school this week to begin with." The red eyes shot meaningfully toward Lucius Malfoy, as a wicked smile bent the corners of the thin mouth. "I want her here tomorrow night at midnight, Severus."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Dear God," Sarah gasped. She half expected every eye in the room to find her, but no, this was only a memory; it wasn't real. Yet. Her persona was in tatters, however, and she shrank back against the wall behind her, trying to pull herself back together, praying the scene would end as soon as possible.

"However, Master," Severus went on. "I shall need a Portkey. The girl's Apparition skills are not what they should be. It would unfortunate if she attracted the attention of the Ministry by splinching in coming here."

"Unfortunate indeed." The Dark Lord sounded displeased. "Wormtail!"

"Yes, Master?" A fellow who was rather sorry-looking, in every respect but the silver hand that gleamed at the end of one arm, came out from the shadows on the other side of the Dark Lord's chair.

"Bring me an object suitable for a Portkey."

Wormtail ducked out of the room through an entrance hidden behind one of the ubiquitous curtains.

"If I may speak, Master...?" Lucius Malfoy began.

"You may not," the Dark Lord said testily. "Tomorrow night, when I have seen her for myself, I will entertain your thoughts. Not before."

Wormtail returned with an ornate silver spoon. The Dark Lord took it from him.

"Very good. _Portus!_" The spoon glowed briefly; when it faded, the Dark Lord extended it toward Severus. "It will operate only at midnight tomorrow precisely. But if I determine that you or she are thinking of betraying me, Severus, _I will cut your heart out with it_."

* * *

The memory ended less than a minute later, as the Dark Lord dismissed Severus and several of the others. Sarah found herself sitting at the table, one hand clenched tight upon its edge, the other locked so hard around her wand that it was shaking. 

"_Tonight?_" she asked. Severus looked as if he'd been expecting her reaction, and had intentionally steeled himself against it. "Why didn't you tell me that _yesterday?_ You should have given me some _time_, damn it!" A shower of sparks flew from the tip of her wand—an unconscious effect of her distress.

"Don't shout at me, Sarah!" He jerked himself to his feet, and wrenched her wand from her hand, his level of anxiety finally showing through in his anger. "It would have done you no good to brood over it. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it. And there was no time to prepare you any further, apart from this viewing of the Pensieve."

Sarah stood up—she knew it would be of no use to ask for her wand back until both of them had calmed down—and began tightly pacing a short line between the table and the fireplace. "What do we do?"

"What we have to." He reached out a hand and stopped her, and said sharply, "Look at me, Sarah."

She knew what he expected to see. She took a breath, then blinked. As she raised her eyes to meet his, she knew he would be satisfied, but it gave her no joy.

"You will survive," he said, his grim face showing just a hint of pleasure at her ready response to his challenge. "And if we are very fortunate, you will never have to do this again."

She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

"One thing more," he said, grasping her by both arms. "Don't provoke him into using Crucio on you. If you show the least defiance of his will, he may do so, in order to test your reaction. Do whatever you must to prevent that from happening. Say anything. Do anything."

"Why are you so afraid of him hurting me?" she said, sensing something more behind his words. The silence that answered her was one she knew all too well. It meant that he was about to tell her something he would rather not.

"You have no idea how agonizing it is to be hit with that curse. Yes, you would almost certainly survive it, but..." He paused, then suddenly drew her close, and whispered, "I cannot be sure the child would."

"_No!_" she whimpered against his chest. "You're just trying to frighten me so I won't mess up!"

"If it serves that purpose, well and good." He held her tightly, as if he expected her to try to pull away. "But don't become so frightened that you do something stupid. Fear must harden into resolve. Otherwise, it makes you weak. And you are not weak, Sarah. Sweet Merlin, you've survived being with _me_."

Sarah snorted a very faint laugh. "And I suppose you are as terrible as the Dark Lord?"

"At moments. At close quarters, as you should know yourself. And I have a few students who would assure you that there's very little difference between us."

"I see a great deal of difference," she said. "For one thing, you have a nose." She burst out giggling at her own joke; the sound took on a slightly hysterical tinge as she thought, _How can I laugh at a time like this?_

"I am very much aware of my nose," he said, the meager hint of teasing that had been in his own voice a moment ago dissolving instantly into sullenness.

"I love your nose."

"Hardly."

"I do! It makes you look like somebody of consequence. The Dark Lord must envy you it every day of his immortal existence."

"Is it wise," he asked sharply, "to be laughing at him now?" Now, he clearly meant, mere hours until she was to appear before him. "Or are you simply laughing at me?"

"I'm laughing to keep from going insane. I didn't mean to be insufferable. Or to tease you, if you can't bear it."

"I don't care for being teased," he said crossly. But still, he held her close.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Please tell me what to do. Give me something to do."

However unwise it might be, her eyes strayed to clock. It was nearly five—time for dinner, although she didn't think she could eat right now. Especially not down in the Great Hall with Professor, or rather, _Headmaster_ Umbridge looking out across the tables. Sarah had Portkeyed here from a dark alcove instead of her room. Even if she were missed—which was highly unlikely—no one would know where to look for her.

Severus had followed her gaze, and said, "You need to eat."

"I'm not going up there. I would throw up, with Umbridge watching me, and thinking about...tonight." She shuddered.

"It's because of tonight that you _must_ eat. We need to foster a certain sense of your magical weakness, to discourage the Dark Lord from making you a Death Eater. But fainting before him may prove to be too much for his patience. And it might well reveal what we wish to keep hidden."

She drew a sharp breath. "Should I go to Madam Pomfrey for that girdle now?"

"No." Severus shook his head. "A magical artifact like that would draw his attention instead of deflecting it. It is safer simply to wear loose robes—I think your school robes would be best, to emphasize that you are still a student—and avoid thinking of the child as much as you can, short of actually using Occlumency."

That was becoming harder to do, with that tiny butterfly-fluttering in her womb occurring unexpectedly. She knew that Severus had been disciplining himself not to think of it; Severian had become simply 'the child' to him, which tugged painfully at her heart, even as she realized the necessity: the last thing Severus would want was for the Dark Lord to know how much she and Severian mattered to him. As it was, there was no knowing how the Dark Lord would react to the revelation that she was carrying his spy's child. He had been sufficiently angry at the possibility that Severus might lose his position at Hogwarts that it was safest, for now, to try to avoid overtly suggesting that danger any further. But to hide something, by Occlumency, that would soon become all-too-evident might raise questions in their master's mind about what else they were able to hide from him.

"I want you to watch the memory in the Pensieve again. Pay close attention to his reactions to everything that is said, to every move or gesture that anyone makes. Do it once more; then we'll eat." He let her go, urging her toward the table.

Reluctantly, she seated herself again. He held out her wand.

_For I will show you silver and gold  
And I will bring you treasure  
And I will wave a widowing flag  
And I will be your lover_

Somehow, Severus had persuaded the house-elves to bring up a tray of Sarah's favorite foods. She hadn't even known that he had noticed what those were. And after they ate, he came into the Pensieve with her. They experienced the memory over and over, while he drew her attention to certain details, and made sure she knew the names and tendencies of every person in the room.

"You're not the only Gryffindor here." He pointed out Wormtail. "Peter Pettigrew," he spat. "One of a gang of Gryffindors who bullied everyone who got in their way."

Watching the little man grovel before his master, Sarah wondered how he had come to be there. The common wisdom at Hogwarts was that only Slytherins were ambitious enough to pay the steep moral price of taking up with the Dark Lord. Admittedly, the membership of the Inquisitorial Squad gave the lie to a Slytherin monopoly on evil ambition. But she would never have picked Wormtail as a Gryffindor. She asked, "What happened to the others?"

He drew a deep breath. "One is dead, another went to Azkaban." Appropriate fates, she supposed, for any companions-in-evil of the little man. But Sarah had seen how Severus glanced away for a moment, and sensed there was something he was not telling her, although she knew enough to leave the matter alone.

* * *

For the sake of maintaining their secrecy, she went upstairs before curfew, and pretended to go to bed. All her year mates (and the fifth years as well, she noticed) were studying in the common room. She said a general hello, to draw a little attention to herself; she wanted to be sure that at least someone knew she was supposed to be in her bed. 

"You look a bit knackered," commented one of the Weasley twins. They were playing wizard's chess, rather than studying.

"I am. I've had a long day," Sarah said, which was no more than the truth. "I'm going to sleep."

Angelina, at least, had heard her. "G'night."

"Good night."

Sarah trudged up the stairs, but once there, she became a picture of industry. She seized her nightgown and a set of school robes, and set up her spells. She had been gone less than twenty minutes when she popped back into the Potion master's private suite.

* * *

Finally Severus was satisfied that she had learned all she could from the Pensieve. It was after ten. _Less than two hours to live?_ Sarah wondered. 

He must have been thinking the same thing, because he took her to bed and made love to her as if she were made of glass.

They cleaned up and dressed in an anxious silence. The closer the hour drew to midnight, the more grim and fearsome his expression became. Preparing himself, she knew. She shut her eyes and did the same.

_I am Malcolm Darkglass's daughter. My father was a loyal servant of the Dark Lord. My father died for that loyalty. I must come forward to take his place. My father would be pleased with me. I must not disgrace him_.

"It's time, Sarah."

She opened her eyes. Her teacher, lover, husband, mentor drew from his pocket the ornate utensil she had seen in the Pensieve. She silenced the terror in the back of her mind that screamed, _the Dark Lord **touched** that_, and closed her hand around the silver bowl of the spoon.

_And I will go to ravage and kill  
And I will go to plunder  
And I will take a fury to wife  
And I will be your father_

_And night will be our darling  
And fear will be our name_

**

* * *

A/N:** The verses are from a pirate-y song written by Richard Farina with the unfortunate (in this case, at least) name of "The Bold Marauder." The chorus goes:  
_And it's hi ho hey  
I am the bold marauder  
And it's hi ho hey  
I am the white destroyer_

I wish I had an mp3 to share of the version I first heard, performed by Michael Longcor on the tape _Lovers, Heroes and Rogues_. Perhaps when my husband's computer gets fixed, I'll be able to add that to my website. None of the other versions I've heard (there's a somewhat jazzy one available here: http/ has the same chant-like spookiness that inspired me to use it to punctuate this chapter.

I hope to see you all back again after _Half-Blood Prince_. Same Potter time, same Potter channel.


	35. Ch 34: This Ordeal By Fire

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** It should be obvious by now that I don't own Harry Potter and his world. All I want at this point is to give aid and comfort to the remaining Snape fans out there.

**A/N:** First, I want to apologize that this chapter is so late in arriving. HBP really threw me for a loop, and trying to decide how to deal with the effect on this story has taken a lot longer than I planned.

Second, I want to thank all my recent reviewers, both the regulars--Enigmalea, The Heretic, Lady Whitehart, Darla, AlanaRose12, serena, lucidity, BradyB66, Kay50, Owlbait, Aiden2 and cecelle--and the new readers--Pyx:WPI, Becca and Jessie. The kind things you say really make my day! Also, I want to give a special thank you to everyone who voted for this story in the Multifaceted Awards (whether I win anything or not)! And finally, a thank you to Owlbait for her advice on this chapter.

Finally, I'd like to explain the decision I've made about how HBP will affect this story. I figured out pretty quickly that keeping the story completely canon was going to be extremely difficult, and would involve a substantial re-write of Snape's background. Between the effort that would be necessary and the fact that I really like the background I came up with myself, I decided against that almost immediately. The next possible choice was to establish a sort of "parallel universe," in which I kept the things I'd already established, but tried to follow the same basic series of events that happens in canon. I eventually decided against this for two reasons. One is time—I had a story arc planned that ended somewhere near the end of the summer after OotP; taking on HBP would involve either lengthening my story far beyond what I intended or writing a sequel. And as much as I've loved writing this story, it has taken up a lot of my spare (and non-spare) time. I would like to be able to actually finish it one of these days before too long (and my family would be happier about that, too). I don't intend to give up writing HP fan-fics altogether! But occasional one-shots and short fics are probably more reasonable for me to attempt than another novel-length fic.

The second reason I decided against taking on HBP has to do with where I think the canon is going in the next book. The Snape-loved-Lily theory, which I used to think was very far out there, has gotten more and more likely—if that proves to be true, with the particulars I suspect, then all remotely canon Snape romances will be blasted for all time. Also, I think that the chances of Snape surviving book seven are, sadly, rapidly approaching nil.

When I originally plotted out this story, I left the ending somewhat open, in case HBP gave me something useful. Well, if you've read it, you know what it's given me! In any event, I did have a handful of possible endings planned, some happy, some a bit tragic. Now that I've decided not to try to keep to canon with the events of HBP (although I will stay canon with the rest of OotP, and an idea or two from HBP may sneak in), I've decided that I owe it, to myself and my readers (some of whom, I know, were nearly as traumatized by HBP as I was), to choose one of those happy endings. Even if it is AU. I hope that this choice will be satisfactory to most of my readers (and I'm sorry I can't please you all)!

* * *

**Chapter 34: This Ordeal By Fire**

When the wrenching sensation ended, Sarah expected to find herself before the Dark Lord. Instead, she was in the entrance hall of a great house. No, of course, he wouldn't take the risk of the Portkey being misused—by misfortune or intention—to bring his enemies directly into his presence. But as Sarah looked around, she realized that she knew this house. All too well.

Her eyes flicked down to the spoon; the pattern of the handle was still hidden under her husband's fingers. As she pulled it out of his puzzled but unresisting grip, she gasped low. _Sweet Merlin!_

Abruptly Severus's other hand closed around her arm, tightly enough to make her look up at him. There was a flash of alarm deep in his eyes, terror that she was about to reveal herself.

"This is Darkglass Hall," she whispered.

His eyes widened for an instant, then hardened into cold, black stones. "Control yourself," he snapped, under his breath. He snatched the spoon from her and replaced it in his pocket.

"Our Master wants you _now_," said a squeaky, simpering voice. Sarah turned to see the man the Dark Lord called Wormtail. He was scarcely taller than herself, with balding, colorless hair, small eyes in a pinched face, and that strange silver hand, the stillness of which emphasized the twitchiness of the rest of him.

"Do you enjoy being our Master's _butler_, Pettigrew?" Severus sneered. "Although that's probably all you were ever suited for, isn't it?"

Pettigrew hissed, as if threatening to return the insult, but quailed before doing so, probably from the expression on Severus' face. The little man turned on his heel and slunk away, clearly expecting them to follow. The sound of footsteps above them made Sarah look up. Lucius Malfoy, and the Lestranges (all three of them) had been standing on the upper landing of the staircase, wands at the ready, doubtlessly waiting to see if they would get an excuse to attack.

Sarah forced her attention back to Pettigrew's retreating figure, forced herself to follow him through rooms that made her heart ache with longing, forced herself to try to turn this unexpected blow to her advantage, instead of allowing it to crumple her resolve, as it was threatening to do.

Uncle Franklin had given over the house—_her house_—to the use of the Dark Lord!

_As my father might well have done, if he had lived_.

The curtains in the drawing room (although it was still too dark, when she entered, to see the color properly) were a deep green. Or at least the ones that belonged there had been. Others must have been brought in, so as to shroud the whole chamber in velvet darkness. All the furniture she remembered from her childhood had been moved out to create this 'throne room.' No wonder she hadn't recognized it.

She did, however, recognize the men gathered inside it. Franklin Nott smiled at her with forced fondness, as if that would make her believe he was welcoming her home. From his place in the semicircle, Mortimer Mulciber nodded to her with a sly look. Only Antonin Dolohov, whom she did not know except through the Pensieve, regarded her with cool disinterest.

None of these—nor the footsteps of the Death Eaters who were filing in behind her—were as important as the frightening man sitting on the dais.

_Don't think. Just act._

Bending low, in a terrified awe that she did not have to pretend, she fell on her knees before the throne and brought the hem of the Dark Lord's robe to her lips.

_It's just a piece of cloth. A dusty piece of cloth._

"So," the high, horrible voice said, "this is Malcolm's daughter. You may rise, Sarah."

She did, although she was not sure how she managed to do so. She kept her head down, trying to delay the moment when he could use Legilimency on her. No matter how carefully she had ordered her thoughts, she was still afraid. It was a fear, she understood suddenly, that everyone in this room must understand—the fear of somehow being found wanting, regardless of her best efforts.

"Look at me," he demanded.

Sarah raised her eyes. Red, slit-pupiled orbs were waiting for her. She could feel him sifting her mind. _Awe. Fear. Her love of her father. Her anger at her mother. Her admiration of Severus Snape._ She offered them all as proof of who she was.

"You acknowledge me as your Master, Sarah?"

"I do." As her father's daughter, she could have no other.

"You have been long kept from your true loyalties, I see."

"I have, Master." Deep down, where she could not even afford to acknowledge it, she felt sick at what she was saying.

"Your mother, I have been told, betrayed your father."

_How could you do that, Mother, even for me?_

"Yes, Master. But he died rather than renounce you."

"But you remained with her, did you not?"

_Was I thinking of running away, that day when Michael found me?_

"My Lord, I had no choice. I was only a child. I didn't want to go, but she took me away with her. She used magic to keep my father from finding me. And when he was dead...there was nothing I could do." It was all true—most of all, that miserable longing for home, for her father. Her eyes burned, and she felt a tear jump from her eyelashes onto her cheek. She had not intended to show so much emotion. Would he despise her for it?

The horrible voice grew curiously gentle, a sound it was impossible not to mistrust, a sound that dried her tears instantly. "Yet now you have returned. For I believe this was your childhood home, was it not?" He made an expansive gesture with one pale, long-fingered hand.

"Yes, My Lord. I only wish that I could have offered it to you myself." She flicked a glance in the direction of Franklin Nott, feeling resentment boil up in her, letting it do so, to hide more dangerous feelings. "Alas, it is no longer mine to give."

"Indeed? Your generous impulse is well-taken, nonetheless," he answered. "But now, Sarah, I wish to know how and why you have sought to enter my service in your father's place. You see, I have heard much of you, from various sources, all of whom seem convinced they are telling the truth. And yet the picture remains confused. You know, of course, that you must not lie to me."

Sarah felt her knees, which had been unsteady ever since she had stood up at his command, finally give way again. She found herself bending low, almost groveling. It was difficult, she realized, to do otherwise. "No, Master," she said, hating the hint of a whimper in her voice. "You will judge the truth."

"Begin, then," he ordered.

She had practiced the story, over and over, until she half-believed it was true herself. Far too much of it _was_.

"My Lord, I had resigned myself to living with my mother's family, when I was not at Hogwarts. I knew that my father had believed you were not dead, though he did not know where to seek for you. But everyone else seemed convinced that you would never come back, and so I had to accept what I was told.

"Then, last spring, there were rumors that you had returned. The Ministry denied them, but I remembered my father's words, and I resolved... I wished to be ready to serve you."

"A commendable desire," the high voice said. "Go on."

"My father had begun to teach me the Dark Arts, but all that ended when my mother took me away. I had no books. I assume that my father's library was confiscated by the Ministry, but even if it had not been, this house was no longer mine. My mother sold it the Notts for a pittance," Sarah spat out, full of real venom at the thought.

"I see. Continue."

"When I returned to Hogwarts for my final year last fall, I was determined to do what I could to prepare myself. I had been sorted into Gryffindor—the Sorting Hat offered to put me in Slytherin, but I knew I would have no peace with my mother's family if I accepted a place in that House. But because of that, none of the Slytherins would have anything to do with me. I hoped to find some books in the library, but what I really needed was a teacher. And I knew of only one who might help me."

"Ah yes, Professor Snape. But you must have had some reason to suppose that he would help you? Were you aware that he was my servant?"

"Oh, no, Master!" She shook her lowered head. "There have always been rumors, of course, that he supported you in his youth. But there was never any way to know if those rumors were true or not. But everyone knows that Professor Snape is interested in the Dark Arts—that he's been trying to get that teaching position for years. And so I went to him."

"And he did not rebuff you?" The Dark Lord sounded skeptical.

"He did, at first. I had to risk...well...hinting more than was truly safe about my allegiance. I told him the truth—that my father had been a Death Eater."

"And this convinced him?"

"He gave me suggestions of books to read, at first. I went to him with questions and...things began to change." There was no hiding from him that she had a relationship with her teacher. It was better that it be told on their own terms.

"To...change, you say?" the Dark Lord asked, his obvious interest tightening his voice.

"He began to teach me...a great many things," Sarah said.

"He had no business meddling with her!" Franklin Nott burst out. From the tone of the whispers rising behind her, he was not the only one who thought so. "Why would she not come to us—her family?"

"_Family?_" Sarah snapped. She dared not turn her back on the Dark Lord, but she looked as well as she could toward her Uncle Franklin. "You—who let my father die, without raising a finger to help him?" She didn't know if that was true, but she suspected it; it did no harm to herself to make the accusation. "You—who took away my inheritance? You—who never even _attempted_ to reclaim me after my mother died? You—who forgot I even _existed?_ I should have gone to _you?_"

"Now, now," the Dark Lord silenced them all. "Nott, she speaks the truth, does she not?"

"My Lord," Franklin stammered, "I confess that I believed my niece beyond reclaiming. I had no reason to think otherwise, when she never attempted to contact us in any way. My youngest son, her cousin, is still at school. She might have—"

"Yet she did not," the high voice interrupted coldly. "Clearly she did not trust you."

Sarah wondered what implication was behind those words. _Should_ she have trusted her uncle, in the Dark Lord's opinion? Or did the Dark Lord not trust her uncle either? Severus had told her that her uncle was not among his favorites, the ones whom he called by their first names. This, apparently, in spite of his donation of Darkglass Hall to the cause.

"Master," spoke up Malfoy, "if I may speak?"

"What have you to add, Lucius?" The voice was deadly; Sarah wondered how Malfoy even dared to breathe too loudly.

"Her father had many friends. Even if she felt that the Notts had done badly by her, why could she not come to one of us?"

Before Sarah could think of a suitable retort, Severus suddenly spoke from behind her. "Somebody of her own class, is that what you mean, Lucius?"

"Yes, that _is_ what I mean," Malfoy shot back. "My Lord, surely you see that—"

"I see _what?_" The huge snake, which had been sleeping by the fire, seemed to have roused at its master's anger. It hissed, then oozed across the floor to the dais.

Sarah shook where she kneeled. Snakes had never frightened her, but the deadly giant cobra, passing so close to her that she could have touched it without fully extending her arm, was a far different order of magnitude from snakes in the garden and Slytherin decorations.

The Dark Lord turned his attention for a moment to fondling the snake, whispering, "Ah, Nagini." When he spoke again to his Death Eaters, he sounded a fraction calmer. "I see only that none of Malcolm's friends could bring themselves to make an effort to approach his daughter. You, Lucius, who brought this matter to my attention—you did not even attempt to speak with her before carrying tales to me. You wish me to reward sloth and inaction? You wish me to despise faithful efforts made in my service? You wish me to bestow honors upon my servants with consideration only for those who were born with wealth and power? If Severus has done what no other was willing to do, should I deny him whatever natural reward he might obtain?"

"But the danger, My Lord..." Lucius pleaded.

"Ah, yes." The Dark Lord turned back to Sarah. "Has Professor Snape explained to you his unique position at Hogwarts? When did he reveal himself to you?"

"After Halloween," Sarah confessed. "He had tried to keep it hidden from me, My Lord, but...I discovered the Dark Mark, and I knew what it meant. It was then that I begged him to help me prepare for...he promised me I would be presented to you when I was ready."

The Dark Lord's eyes went past her. "And you do not consider her 'ready,' Severus?"

"No, My Lord."

The long, pale fingers stroked Nagini for several long moments. "You are aware, Sarah, are you not, that if Professor Snape is discovered...teaching you, he will lose both his position and much of his value to me?"

"Yes, My Lord." She lowered her head, trembling.

"Is it possible that anyone is aware of your activities?" There was a quiet tension in the words. Sarah realized that her answers now, no matter how careful, would be fraught with hazards she could not predict or control.

"No, Master. Professor Snape has taught me sufficient of the Dark Arts to conceal our meetings."

"And yet Draco Malfoy suspected you." It was as if a cat had been waiting to spring on its prey. _Did I pass the first test, only to fail at another?_

Sarah summoned up anger to hide her dangerous fears. "Draco Malfoy is jealous of Professor Snape's attention. He has seen nothing he should not, Master, but he _has_ interrupted legitimate meetings concerning my N.E.W.T. Potions project. On several occasions he has taunted me with crude implications, and finally...I said more to him than I should."

"About Professor Snape?"

_Oh, dear, now this is truly going someplace I wanted to avoid_. "No, Master, about my...ambitions."

"Ah, yes...that. You suggested to him that you were on the verge of becoming a member of my Inner Circle..."

Her heart was pounding madly. "Forgive me, Master. I was angry at him. I was trying to threaten him, so he would leave me alone."

"I see. Such foolish, childish competition," the Dark Lord said mockingly.

"I'm sorry, Master." Sarah bent further yet, the terror of having displeased him almost overwhelming her. Not because she cared what he thought of her (although she kept that fact very carefully to herself), but because to do so meant death...or a punishment that might mean death for her child.

"I have been assured that Draco will no longer trouble you," the horrible voice went on, a little less mocking, allowing her to breathe. "However, should your...extra tuition with Professor Snape be discovered, you will pay the most extreme penalties. Do not disappoint me, Sarah."

"No, Master." _Was it possible to go mad from terror?_

"Now," the Dark Lord continued, in a lighter tone. "What of these ambitions of yours, which you hinted to Draco? Do you truly desire to become one of my Death Eaters, Sarah?"

He had not forgotten or become distracted._ What can I say that will not lead me to taking the Dark Mark?_

"I...I misspoke, My Lord. I grew up among those who do not accept the old ways, who encouraged me to...to think beyond a woman's proper station."

Behind her, she heard Bellatrix Lestrange laugh, almost languidly; perhaps, as one of the Dark Lord's favorites, she could dare to do so. As the laugh ended, Bellatrix spoke, "My Lord, I beg you, give her to me for training. I can fit her to take her father's place in the Inner Circle, if that is your desire for her." There was a hint of mockery in the voice, not aimed at her Master, but at Severus, as if she were implying that she could manage what he had not. Sarah had no doubt that the woman was capable of exactly what she claimed; she did not fancy the idea of falling into the female Death Eater's hands.

Seeming to ignore Bellatrix, the Dark Lord said, "Severus, enlighten me concerning her training. What strengths have you discovered? And what weaknesses?"

"As you already know, My Lord, her Apparition skills are poor. That alone, I believe, disqualifies her from the Inner Circle. If she is unable come when she is called, she has no place among those of us who bear the Dark Mark. I have not yet progressed to teaching her the Unforgivables, but although she may be able to learn them, she is...rather delicate for the strain of such severe spells, I would say. Her true talent lies in Potions. She has learned, as very few can, to brew the Wolfsbane Potion."

"Indeed?" The Dark Lord sounded surprised. "When the time comes for the werewolves at my command to begin their attacks, an additional potion-maker capable of brewing the Wolfsbane may prove very useful."

_Oh_...

"So I believed, My Lord, when I encouraged her to attempt it. If you approve, I feel certain that I can obtain an apprenticeship for her at Hogwarts, so that I can personally supervise her instruction."

"We all know what you want to _supervise_, Snape," said Franklin Nott sarcastically.

"Truly, My Lord," put in Lucius Malfoy. "Is it wise to permit further risk of this nature? And if she is already so skilled that she can make Wolfsbane, perhaps an apprenticeship is unnecessary."

"And you would suggest...what?" asked the Dark Lord.

"Perhaps...marriage, My Lord. She is the last of the Darkglass line; her blood should not be permitted to fail."

"My sons carry that bloodline as well, Malfoy," Franklin Nott objected. "But I do think the suggestion is wise, Master. Within a pureblood household, her irregular upbringing can be corrected." The way he said this last word sent an involuntary shiver through Sarah.

"You already have a match in mind for her, Lucius?"

"Master, if it please you, I suggest my son Draco."

Sarah spoke up before she could think. "_That little snot?_"

Bellatrix laughed again. "You are too lenient with him, Lucius."

"He is scarcely two years younger than Sarah," Lucius plowed forward, ignoring both their comments. "And our two families have intermarried very seldom in the last several hundred years."

It was, in the terms used by pureblood families, a perfect match. Sarah felt a sudden twinge of fear that Malfoy's suggestion might really be taken seriously. And if it were, she and Severus would have no choice but to reveal their marriage. And hope that the Dark Lord did not summarily declare it null and void.

"The boy is still in school," Severus pointed out.

"The marriage can wait," said Franklin Nott. "But meanwhile, Sarah can take her proper place as a member of my household."

"If the marriage is solemnized over the summer, there would be no need to wait," said Malfoy. "Narcissa would welcome a daughter-in-law, and could prepare Sarah for her duties while Draco finishes at Hogwarts."

It would be almost funny—listening to them jockeying with one another for the right to control such a prize as Malcolm Darkglass's daughter—if the matter did not impact all her future hopes for happiness.

"Please, My Lord," she interjected, pleading. "I do not wish to marry Draco Malfoy."

"Enough!" The sharp word silenced them all. "Sarah, you will do as I command you. I owe your father no less for his service than to act as guardian to his daughter. Surely you see that I know what is best for you?"

"Yes, My Lord," she said, overcome with despair. And he knew it. She could hear it in his voice, how he enjoyed making her feel helpless.

"For now," he said slowly, "Sarah must return to Hogwarts and complete her studies—including her lessons in the Dark Arts, so long Severus is able to assure me they can be kept secret. But when the time comes for further assessment of her future, Lord Voldemort will reveal his decision.

"You may take her back, Severus. Lucius, Bella, I have particulars to discuss with you. The rest of you are dismissed."

Sarah remained bowed over her knees until her husband came to help her to her feet. Another kiss of that dusty hem, and then she was leaving that terrible presence. In the dining room, Severus paused at the sideboard to replace the spoon. To her surprise, he took another. In the entrance hall, he murmured over it, "_Portus_."

Franklin Nott caught up with them.

"Sarah, I want you to know that I could not have prevented your father's death. I _would_ have helped him, had he asked for help. Fiona would never have forgiven me had I done otherwise."

Sarah watched at his uneasy expression dispassionately, watched how his eyes hardened when they flicked to Severus.

"My dear niece, surely you would rather be treated as you deserve? I'm certain that if you express a desire to return to your only remaining family, the Dark Lord will take that into consideration when he decides your future. I can protect you from Malfoy, if you place yourself in my care. I hope you understand that we would welcome you with greater affection than anyone else possibly could."

"I understand you, Uncle Franklin," she answered. Only if he were a great fool would he fail to understand by her tone that she had no intention of acceding to his request.

"Then I hope you also understand what you can expect from _him_," Franklin snapped, indicating Severus with a sharp jerk of his head. "Perhaps you're too young and foolish to realize that he's merely using you."

"How curious," Severus remarked snidely. "I had the impression that all of _you_ were attempting to use her. Fortunately, Sarah seems very well aware of that fact."

"Don't cross us any further, Snape!" Franklin said. "You may be getting what you want for now. But don't plan on any future advantage from it. She's so far above you, you don't even deserve to kiss her feet. She'll come to realize that in time. Then perhaps she'll feel properly ashamed of herself. Certainly she'll come to hate you for abusing her youth."

"Severus, I want to go home," Sarah broke in, finding that her voice was trembling.

"Ho, _Severus_, is it?" Franklin said. "Not _Professor Snape?_"

"Take hold," Severus said.

Sarah grasped the bowl of a silver spoon that ought, by right, to be hers.

"Your father would never countenance this, and you know it, Sarah."

"Hogwarts," Severus intoned, and Sarah felt the sharp jerk of the Portkey magic.

"You're going to regret—" Thankfully, it cut off the rest.

* * *

**A/N:** When I was first developing the Nott family, I thought that I'd once seen something more about them in an interview, but I was unable to locate it. It was only after I'd already established some facts about them in my story that I came across the info on JKR's website. Apparently, Theodore Nott's father is actually an elderly widower. So my Notts are now AU, too. Ah, well. 


	36. Ch 35: On the MerryGoRound

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** We all know that the Potterverse belongs to J. K. Rowling. Fortunately for us Snape fans, we still get to play in our own version of it. No harm or profit is intended.

**A/N:** Sorry it's taken such a long time to get this chapter finished. Ever since I came back from vacation, my life has been a neverending round of chaos, school preparations and assorted other obligations that have been eating my free time for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I hope the next chapter comes along a little faster.

I'm delighted to see so many new faces (so to speak). Many, many thanks to my marvelous reviewers: serena, lucidity, Aiden2, TessaCilory, Kay50, BradyB66, Lady Whitehart, Withered Lover, J, AlanaRose12, cecelle, Darla, lilypalanza, NJBear Tagger, JerseyJodi and Owlbait. It really helps, in this post-HBP world, to know that you are still hanging in there! Also, kudos to cecelle for supplying a discerning eye!

JerseyJodi: Before I got kidnapped by this story, I was working on an original novel in the space opera genre. I only wish it was going as well for me as this story has.

NJBear Tagger: You'll see what Nott does...very soon. :evil grin:

This chapter is one of those grab-bags of stuff—well-suited, I hope, to the chaos into which Sarah returns.

* * *

**Chapter 35: On the Merry-Go-Round in an Inhuman Race**

Sarah expected to arrive in the Potion master's quarters. It was almost more than she could bear to find that they were in the Forbidden Forest instead.

"Come," Severus insisted. He led her through the trees; half-blind, she went unresisting, scarcely aware when they came out of the shadows of the forest into the wider darkness of the open sky.

"Your ring, Sarah." When she looked up at him, still dazed, his hand went to the back of her neck, found the chain, and drew it out. But when he tried to place it on her finger, she closed her own hand around the ring, pushing his fingers away, and shoved the silver circlet on roughly for herself. It seemed, quite suddenly, insupportable that _anyone_ should exert possession over her. She had to let him turn the ring, however, since he had to be touching it. She regained her senses just enough to remember his long-ago warning against using it outside the castle's wards, but it was too late to stop him. The sharp breath she drew on one side of the transit turned into a sob of relief on the other, as they arrived, safe and whole. Apparently the grounds counted as being inside the wards.

"Damn!" Severus said, as they wavered unsteadily on the mattress under their feet and collapsed together onto their knees.

The sob of relief tightened inside her to a sob of anger.

"It was _my_ house!" she cried. "_Damn_ him! _Damn him damn him damn him!_"

Severus laughed into her hair, as he held her, a bitter sound. "Of all the things to think of now," he growled softly.

She bristled for a moment. Then the reality of what she had just passed through crashed down on her and she trembled in his arms.

"It was worse than...than I ever thought," she gasped.

"Because of the house?"

"No." Sarah shook her head. "I...there came a point when...I couldn't have resisted him, even if I had dared." Her fingers tightened in the fabric of his robes.

"I know," he whispered. "All of us have felt it. Do you think all of his followers do so for the sake of power? There are plenty of little worms like Pettigrew, who have been overwhelmed by the terror he inspires, who have surrendered their souls to it." Another tremor shook her. Instead of holding her tighter, Severus pushed her back, seeking her eyes, studying them. "Not you, Sarah."

"I just feel now as if..." her voice broke, and she looked away, "as if I could live under his power...if I had to." She felt anger swelling up in her again. She had been so shaken by what she had just experienced that she wanted to take out her feelings on someone. Severus was the only available target. And very, very easy to blame. "But that's what you've wanted all along, isn't it?" she asked snidely.

Silence...an uncomfortable silence. "Do you really expect me to deny that I would rather see you alive than dead, no matter what happens? Yes, if you no longer feel that death would be preferable to living under his rule, I _am_ glad of it."

"Does that mean you're going to stop trying to prevent it?" As soon as she said it, she knew it was wrong to have done so. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just...it was just so _horrible_." Her voice cracked on a sob.

After a moment's hesitation, he pulled her close...though a bit roughly. "You won't remember it, Sarah, but when he was rising for the first time, there were a great many people who were all too willing to let him take over—quite ordinary people. Not because they supported his cause. Because they were afraid—afraid that if he triumphed, as he seemed all too likely to do, it would be better not to have fought against him." His voice was tight. "Is that how you feel? Do you want to give in to him, now?"

Sarah shook her head against his chest.

"You're fighting, even if nobody else ever knows it. Even if he _wins_, you'll have tried to do _something_."

"_I don't want him to win!_" Sarah protested, raising her head.

"I know," Severus answered sharply. "But I won't have you dying needlessly. Not if I can prevent it. _Don't_ try to circumvent me, Sarah!"

"I didn't think I was," she said, puzzled and hurt at the suggestion.

"You aren't. But nothing has worried me so much in the last few months as that damned Gryffindor courage prompting you to do something stupid."

"I'm not _stupid!_"

"I'm not accusing you of being. You did very well tonight. They're going to be at each other's throats for months, trying to get whatever they can from you." He snorted softly.

"What about you?" Sarah asked. "They're going to be at your throat, too. More so, probably. And I'm going to be caught in the middle."

"Let me worry about that for now. The Dark Lord was more pleased with you than you realize. And more pleased with me than I dared to hope."

"Then the headmaster was right?"

"I never doubted that. But there are...issues he may not have considered."

Whatever the issues were, Sarah realized that she was far too drained to think about them now. "Can I just...lie down?"

"Get ready for bed first," he demanded. He eased her to her feet beside the bed. She felt more wobbly than she expected to, but she forced herself to retrieve her nightgown. She had never been so glad—after the age it seemed to take to get herself into the red flannel—to curl up against him.

"You can't sleep here, Sarah," he said, fishing for her ring.

"Please don't make me go," she said. "I don't think I can bear to lie there alone in the dark thinking about...about tonight."

He sighed quietly. "I'll give you something. You're apt to have nightmares."

"I don't want anything. I just want to stay here. Please. I'll leave early. Everything's set up."

She didn't quite expect him to concede, but he did. Perhaps it was because he knew that he would be right about the nightmares. Perhaps he was trying to keep his own nightmares at bay. It was not an easy night, although toward morning the restlessness of their minds and bodies finally eased a little and allowed for some real sleep.

* * *

Sarah woke first, as usual, and peered at the clock in dismay. After nine! At least it was Sunday. She situated herself and twisted the silver band around her finger, hoping against the odds that the shock of her departure wouldn't disturb Severus too much. She had done this so often, it was habit—the sharp jerk of the transfer, then a quick dismissal of the illusion spells. But this time, as the silence spell was banished, she heard her name being called at quite close range. 

"Sarah?" It was Angelina, standing there peering between the bed curtains. "Um, what was that?" the girl asked.

"What was what?" Sarah asked, trying to pretend sleepy befuddlement, which was not easy with her heart beating a rapid staccato.

"What you just did," Angelina answered. "It was like you disappeared for an instant or...something. You were lying one way, then you were lying another."

"Did you not get enough sleep? It sounds like your eyes are playing tricks on you."

But Angelina was pointing to the ring...or rather to the chain, which disappeared under Sarah's right hand. "What is that?" She slipped inside the curtains and plopped down on the edge of the bed. "You are so busted, girl!"

"Okay, okay," Sarah said, trying to think fast. "You know I have a boyfriend."

"Right."

"Well, over Christmas I figured out a better way to sneak out to meet him." She slid the ring surreptitiously off her finger; if she had to show it to Angelina, she did not want to suggest more significance to it than was necessary. Hesitantly, hinting that she was afraid of saying more, she said, "You _did_ promise to keep my secret, Angelina."

"I have! So, how do you do it?" The girl was peering fixedly at Sarah's closed hand.

"I would be in so much trouble if anyone found out," Sarah went on. "Not just with Umbridge but with the Ministry, too."

"I'm not going to tell! So just tell me!" Angelina whispered, with conspiratorial fervor.

The truth, unfortunately, was the only thing that made sense. "I have a pendant that's a Portkey," Sarah confessed. With a swift movement, she tucked her 'pendant' down inside the neck of her gown before the other girl could ask to look at it. She emphasized, "An _illegal_ Portkey. I could be sent to Azkaban for even having it. And I would definitely get expelled for using it."

Angelina's eyes went wide. "Why take the risk? It's not like you weren't managing before Christmas, is it?"

Good point, unfortunately. A clandestine tryst with another student, should it be discovered, would probably merit no worse than detention for the embarrassed couple (along with some pointed lectures and owls to each of their parents). Why take the risk, indeed?

"We want to be married," Sarah said. "But our families might not allow it."

"Who is this you're seeing?" Angelina said. "You're driving me mad trying to figure it out. And how can you let your family tell you who you can and can't marry?"

"You're a half-blood, right?" Witch mum and Muggle dad, Sarah thought she remembered.

"What about it?" Angelina sounded a little defensive.

"You don't know how lucky you are. Old wizarding families are...well, they're not easy to be in. Things are different for us, and not in good ways, no matter what those pureblood fanatics say about it." An idea suddenly fell into place. "My boyfriend is from one of those families, too. And my background isn't as impeccable as his parents might like. I'm in _Gryffindor_, for one thing. In case you haven't noticed, that's a mortal sin to some people."

"So, you're admitting your boyfriend is in Slytherin?" Angelina cocked an eyebrow astutely.

"Okay, I admit it. But he's not even in our year, so don't try to guess."

"You're going out with a younger...well, a _boy?_"

"He's very mature," Sarah assured. "But obviously we can't be married yet. And we can't afford to be caught, you know?"

Angelina frowned. "Okay. I see. I think."

"_Please don't tell?_"

"I won't. So, you use an illusion charm to make it look like you're still in bed?"

"Was it any good?" Sarah asked.

"Well, until you just sort of jumped from one position to another. I wouldn't have known. Of course, I didn't try shaking you or anything."

"Will you still cover for me? We've only got the summer term left."

"What are you going to do over the summer? And next year?"

Sarah grimaced ruefully. "I guess we'll figure that out then."

Angelina returned the rueful look. "I hope it works out." She laid her hand on Sarah's. "You know I won't tell."

"Thank you," Sarah said earnestly. Then something occurred to her. "Um, what were you waking me up for?"

"Just breakfast. You're usually up before everyone else. You coming?"

It was more than a little uncanny, after the week just past, to interact as an ordinary seventh year student again. In all honesty, after last night, it was a relief. "Sure."

* * *

Sarah kept her conversation with Angelina to herself, deciding that, having already kept one close call with her dorm mate hidden, this was not a good time to have an attack of guilty honesty. But she did make a point of going to Madam Pomfrey that very morning for the illusion girdle, which proved to be a long belt woven of thin cords. 

"You wear it under your robes," Madam Pomfrey told her. "You'll want to keep your robes fastened all the way up the front, to keep it hidden. Not that anyone is likely to know what it is, but there's no point in taking that chance. And you'll be having enough difficulty with your uniform that you won't want it to show. Thank goodness there's only two months of school left!"

Sarah found it difficult to tell any difference in her appearance when she looked in a mirror, but Severus assured her that it did have an effect. He could still feel the swell of her belly, but his hand met her stomach well before his eyes said it should. So the chief danger now was bumping into someone accidentally and revealing the discrepancy.

If her week of freedom had lessened her ability to pretend that she was still merely Sarah Darkglass, the matter went unnoticed as the N.E.W.T. students entered a frantic period of preparation for their exams. Professor Mendelev, from the Wizarding Examinations Authority, arrived routinely each week to check on the progress of those students who had selected demonstration potions with an extended brewing period; he set (and renewed, as needed) complex Anti-Cheating Charms on everything in their individual workrooms, assuring them that the process had never caused problems with anyone's potion in the past.

"There's always got to be a first time," groaned Valancy (who had the next workroom up the hallway) after the examiner's visit.

With something as sensitive as the Wolfsbane brewing, Sarah had to agree.

But the biggest problem the seventh years were experiencing was the utter chaos into which Hogwarts had degenerated after the holiday. To no one's surprise, Fred and George Weasley had been the prime instigators...a role they retained in spirit, even after leaving Hogwarts.

Yes, they were gone. Sarah wasn't sure if it was a minor prank gone awry or an intentional effort to disrupt Umbridge's tenure as headmistress, but they had managed to turn part of the fifth floor corridor into a swamp on the very day that school resumed. And upon the point of being captured by the Inquisitorial Squad (in front of practically the whole school), they had Accio'd their brooms—previously confiscated by Umbridge—and had flown cheerfully away, to the great delight of the watching students.

Ever since that afternoon, the attempts to emulate their example had been causing havoc all over the school. Even more disconcerting—at least for the more serious N.E.W.T. students—was the fact that most of the teachers were permitting the havoc to continue unchecked. Snape, thankfully, still maintained strict order in his classroom, as did Professor Sinistra, but Professor Sprout had begun giving hints all through class about ways in which plants could create disruptions, and Professor McGonagall—who had always been a martinet about hallway conduct—could be seen walking serenely through the corridors, ignoring mischief going on under her very nose.

And despite his public position on the chaos, Sarah had caught Severus looking briefly but unusually smug about the incident with the Weasley twins. When she asked him, after the fact, if he was glad to have the twins gone from Hogwarts, he shrugged. Then he commented that some of the rare swampland ingredients which had probably gone into creating the base for their charm might _possibly_ have been stolen from his private stores. "It has happened before," he said. But his uncharacteristic nonchalance brought her eyebrows up in a silent query. His own black brows lifted in the silent hint at an answer, but he said nothing more about it—in that way he had of wordlessly indicating that a subject was not open for discussion—and so Sarah did not press him for information, although she sorely wanted to.

In some ways, she supposed, the less she knew about anti-Umbridge machinations, the better. While she supported the perpetrators in principle, the end result of their actions—increasing stress on the members of the I.S.—was something she was rapidly coming to resent. She had been down in her workroom when Fred and George had produced their "portable swamp," and she had pointedly ignored the summons of her hidden silver badge (on the theory that her absence would probably go unnoticed) until the flow of excited students down the corridor had increased to the point where curiosity overcame her. It had been then, as she pushed her way up the stairs toward the entrance hall to witness the ending of yet another confrontation with Umbridge, that she had spied Professor Severus Snape with a decided smirk on his face. It had disappeared a moment later, as the twins made their escape and Umbridge began stalking around looking for someone else to blame.

"Darkglass didn't show up in time to help," Draco Malfoy had complained. Whatever his father had said to him about the subject of his Head of House and the Gryffindor girl, he had apparently figured out, all too quickly, that he still had a means of harassing her about which none of his elders could do anything. He had given her quite a dirty look out of the corner of his eye as he informed Umbridge of her slacking.

"I was dealing with a potion in a very tricky stage," Sarah had explained angrily. "I came as quickly as I could."

Thankfully, Umbridge had accepted the excuse, although Sarah's further attempts to beg off I.S. duties on account of her upcoming N.E.W.T.s met with very little sympathy. Umbridge herself was run ragged trying to deal with the constant state of minor emergency that prevailed at Hogwarts. If she could do it (so her opinion was), everyone on her Squad—which began to increase in its numbers, as more and more help was needed to combat the rising disorder—would have to cope with it as well.

Consequently, Sarah was unable to spend as much time fussing over her Wolfsbane preparations as she would have preferred. Although—like everything else in her life—the Wolfsbane had taken on sinister overtones.

She had known, from her earlier study, that the Wolfsbane Potion had originally been developed during the Dark Lord's first rise to power, and that its first intended use had been to make the werewolves who served him into more efficient weapons. A werewolf who kept his mind during his transformation could follow orders and attack victims selectively in a way that a moon-maddened lycanthrope was unable to do.

The likelihood, based on the recent conversation (if one could call it that) with the Dark Lord, that she would soon be required to brew the potion for that very purpose put something of a damper on her enthusiasm for the tricky mixture. What had once been a fascinating challenge had become instead a tangible symbol of the threat of being forced to do more harm. It might _feel_ less terrible than casting an Unforgivable at someone, but the suffering that would result from any potions she made in the Dark Lord's service could scarcely be less, even if she didn't have to see the effects with her own two eyes.

* * *

As Severus had predicted, the Occlumency lessons with Potter did not resume. The additional time that gave them, however, was spent on things that Sarah would have preferred to avoid. Mainly she read: books that she could not afford to be caught reading anywhere else in the castle. Books on the Dark Arts. Books on Dark Potions. Most of it was magic she dared not practice—not in her present state; it was too dangerous—but Severus drilled her in the theory for hours at a time on the weekends. Her nightmares began to fill up with the horrors she could cause with a strip of human skin or a dram of menstrual blood, and she gave birth over and over in her dreams to potion-created monstrosities, while her dorm mates dreamed about failing their exams. 

For the N.E.W.T.s, at least, Sarah felt as well-prepared as she could hope to be. She was capable of making any of the potions that were likely to come up on the exam. And in spite of Sprout's asides, the review work in Herbology made Sarah feel that she was reasonably secure in that subject. Astronomy was less certain—all the other stresses on her life seemed to be driving such mathematically detailed information out of her head, so that she felt she knew less now than she had a few months ago. But Astronomy was not vital, thankfully.

The I.S., as usual, was the real bane of her days. Post inspection duties took up valuable study time. And it was becoming dangerous to be on the Inquisitorial Squad. Members were routinely hexed by other students. Montague had still not recovered from his adventure in the Vanishing Cabinet, and finally Severus agreed with Madam Pomfrey that his parents must be informed. To judge from Umbridge's attitude the day after the Montagues' visit, her meeting with them had not gone well. (Severus told Sarah afterwards that—given the general state of chaos they had observed—they had been all too ready to blame the new headmistress, rather than anyone else, for their son's condition.) Sarah lived in fear of someone noticing her entering or leaving the post inspection room. She was annoyed enough over the current state of things that she felt very little guilt anymore about informing on certain of the more obstreperous troublemakers in Gryffindor House. Thankfully, Potter and his friends weren't among them.

Draco also remained a thorn in her side. Umbridge, however, was too harried to take much notice of his attempts to discredit Sarah.

"You wait," Draco said, catching her alone in the post inspection room one afternoon. "It's time you were taught a lesson, and I'm not sorry I'll be the one to teach you." He leered arrogantly.

"As if you could," Sarah retorted, although it discomfited her to realize that Draco was aware of his father's plans for her. "Are you so eager to have another man's leavings?"

She was gratified to see Draco blanch slightly. "You little bitch. You little whore," he spat. "You have no idea what's waiting for you."

"I'd sooner die than marry a sorry little boy like you, Malfoy," Sarah said coolly.

"You'll wish you were dead," Draco got in, before the arrival of another Squad member put a stop to the conversation.

Sarah shuddered over the encounter, later, while Severus held her.

"What if..."

"It won't happen. I will not permit it."

"But if the Dark Lord refuses to acknowledge us, our marriage..." She had a horrible fear that if she went into the Malfoy household, it wouldn't be just Draco abusing her. She could still feel Lucius' eyes on her, that night in Knockturn Alley.

"_It won't happen_. Even if it's necessary to hide you away to prevent it."

The thought was comforting. But Draco's threat—_you have no idea what's waiting for you_—left her with a permanent, lingering chill.

* * *

With one week to go before exams, Sarah was called unexpectedly into Umbridge's office on Friday afternoon. Upon arriving, however, her first impulse was to turn around and run. Standing near the headmistress's desk was Franklin Nott. 

"I understand that you have made arrangements to spend this weekend with your uncle," Umbridge declared, without further ado. "I wish you had informed me in advance. However, since he's come to collect you, I will permit you to go."

To go. With her uncle. Away from the safety of Hogwarts.

"I'm afraid I've had to change my plans," Sarah said, realizing immediately that denying her uncle's story would only cause more problems for her with Umbridge. "I simply have too much studying to do. I'm sorry, Uncle Franklin." She gritted her teeth at this pretense of civility, even as her heart pounded in fear.

"Now, Sarah, you can't possibly mean to disappoint your Aunt Fiona," Franklin said, a hint of dangerous firmness in his tone. "It is her birthday, after all, and you promised."

"I really _can't_, Uncle Franklin." Sarah wondered what it would take to get the man to give up, afraid that whatever he had planned was important enough to him that he would brook no refusal. She did not feel that she could count on Umbridge to protect her, even if her uncle were to drag her bodily from the office. "I know Aunt Fiona wants me to do well in my N.E.W.T.s, and I can't afford this weekend away. I'll come next year."

"A short break would do you good," Franklin urged, as if he had her best interests at heart. "Too much study can overstrain the mind."

"I promised to study with someone this weekend," Sarah tried.

"After promising to come to us?" Franklin raised his greying eyebrows, and glanced at Umbridge, clearly hoping to have the headmistress's support. "After all the arrangements have been made?"

Umbridge seemed more interested in solving this problem so that she could get on with the next one than providing any particular backup to Mr. Nott. But the end result was the same. "This is a pointless argument, Miss Darkglass, and I will not allow it to continue," she said sharply. "Arrangements have been made. It was wrong of you to neglect to tell me about them, and even more wrong of you to make other plans. Your uncle has come all this way to get you. You will go with him."

"I need to get my things, then," Sarah breathed, her thoughts racing toward some plan, _any_ plan, that would let her get to Severus and tell him what was happening.

"Nonsense, Sarah," Franklin said. His shrewd look indicated that he suspected her intentions. "It's only for the weekend, and we have everything you might need. Come along." He approached her, and within the confines of the office, she could not readily escape him without openly revealing her terror of him. Was it worth it to pitch a fit, to make up something, anything, in order to convince Umbridge to reconsider her position? But no suitable idea was coming to her, and her uncle's hand closed around her wand arm at the elbow.

"Thank you, Dolores," he said, with a slight bow, and he led his niece out into the hallway.

"I'm not coming with you," Sarah hissed, trying to wrestle away, now that Umbridge could not see her and require explanations of her behavior. Would someone more useful see her struggling and come to her rescue? None of the students passing by noticed her. As it had always been.

"Oh, yes, you are," Franklin returned, in a whisper. "If necessary, I'll use Imperio. But if I have to do that, there'll be consequences at the other end."

Sarah stilled. She wasn't willing to throw away all possibility of escape, and she feared what her uncle might do to punish her, almost as much as she feared whatever he had planned for her.

"Where are we going?" she asked, in a thin voice.

"Notting Chase, of course. You surprise me, Sarah—so afraid to spend a little time with your own relations."

"If that's all it will be, I'll come quietly. Can you promise me that?"

Her uncle chuckled harshly. "If you're willing to listen to what we have to say, there'll be no trouble. That's the only promise I'll offer, for now."

Sarah took a deep breath. "I daresay that our Master won't be pleased if I'm harmed."

She felt his fingers dig deeper into her arm. "Come along."

She went, but with eyes desperately searching for some friendly face, some hope of help. Why wasn't McGonagall at her usual post in the entrance hall, supervising students as they gathered for dinner? But it was too early yet for that. Sarah yearned toward the dungeon stairs as they passed, pleading in her mind for Severus to come up them, but he did not. _Please, I need somebody!_

Katie Bell, dressed in Quidditch robes, was just ahead of them as they passed out the doors, undoubtedly headed for the pitch to practice.

"Katie!" Sarah called out. Her uncle's hand tightened painfully, but she ignored it, hoping that he wouldn't dare to do anything to silence her with so many witnesses. Katie turned, looking surprised at who was addressing her. "Can you please...tell Angelina to tell Professor Snape that I won't be able to make our appointment tomorrow because I have to go home with my uncle. It's _really_ important."

Katie gave a short and somewhat dubious nod. "Sure."

Sarah breathed hard as she watched Katie go off toward the pitch. She had no idea if the girl would remember. Or, if she did, if Angelina would remember. But it was the only hope she had of letting Severus know where she had gone.

"You think you'll be rescued?" Her uncle jerked her arm sharply. "I wouldn't count on it, dearest niece. Not that one. He'll worry first about his own hide."

_What can Severus possibly do to save me? And from what?_

Franklin went on. "Don't think you won't pay for that, Sarah."

"I thought I already was," she retorted, wriggling her arm in his grip. She could feel where his fingertips were going to leave bruises. They were the only ones traveling the path toward the main gate, and the need for whispers was gone. "What do you want with me?"

"I already told you—we only want to talk with you."

"And I'm to do whatever you tell me?"

"If you put it that way. But really, it's more a matter of you having the chance to see our side of things. _Your family's_ side."

Sarah bit back an accusation: _when have you ever been my family?_ It would be more valuable, at this point, to know what her uncle was planning, to know what he really wanted. If there were ever a good time to enter her new vocation as a spy, this was it.

"I'll listen," she said. It would not do to appear to concede too quickly. "But I won't make any promises."

Franklin's hand loosened ever so slightly. "That's enough, for the moment. We'll see what your aunt has to say." He reached in his pocket with his other hand. "Since you claim you can't Apparate properly, I've had to go to the trouble of getting this." He pulled out a small, dingy piece of leather, like the detached tongue of a shoe. "Take hold."

Sarah laid a finger gingerly on it.

"I said take hold!" her uncle growled. "I won't have you letting go at the last moment." Not waiting for her to obey, he finally released her elbow and instead closed his hand around her fingers, forcing her into constant contact with the leather. "One...two...three..."

The Portkey jerked her away. From Hogwarts. From Severus. From all guarantee of safety.

* * *

**A/N:** I didn't quite _plan_ for this to be another cliffhanger...it just came out that way. I'm looking very much forward to writing the next chapter, though, since I've had it in mind for some time. Hopefully that means it will be finished faster than this one was. 

BTW, an unposted story of Owlbait's seriously influenced my vision of the illusion belt, so I thank her for that bit of inspiration. And the "strip of human skin" refers to one of the first bits of really creepy dark magic I ever encountered in a book—the kind that haunt you, that you can't forget, no matter how much you'd like to: Morgause's "Spancel" in _The Once and Future King_ by T. H. White.


	37. Ch 36: Order Your Fine Horses Now

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** My husband would be quick to assure you that J. K. Rowling is not the mother of his children. Ergo, the Harry Potter universe does not belong to me. I just enjoy wading around in her duck pond, seeing what I can dredge up from the muddy bottom.

**A/N:** I have the greatest reviewers! Welcome back to Lady Whitehart, Aiden2, Owlbait, Sammy Cyanide, AlanaRose12, lucidity and Darla. And welcome aboard to Withered Lover, sneakylaura and the unknown person who also reviewed. And those of you who read but don't review—well, I love you anyway for sticking with me.

This is going to be an unpleasant chapter. Sarah is in a difficult spot with horrible people. And I should warn readers with sensitive souls that she doesn't get out of it quite yet, although the ending here isn't as cliffy as the last one. I also ought to say that I do draw somewhat upon ideas that appear in HBP, although there aren't any spoilers.

My thanks to Lady Whitehart and Owlbait for giving this very long chapter the once-over before I posted it. Yes, this is a _very_ long chapter. Only you can decide in the end if that was a good thing or a bad thing. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 36: Order Your Fine Horses Now **

They appeared in a dark-paneled room, where her aunt Fiona stood leaning against a large desk; this was probably her uncle's study, although she didn't recall ever having been inside it. But Sarah only had a moment to take in the scene before her arms were pinned roughly and suddenly behind her back. The strap of her school bag fell off her shoulder and gouged painfully into her lower arm.

"Take her wand, Fiona," Franklin barked, gripping her painfully hard.

Sarah kicked out at her aunt as the woman approached. Ten years had not made much difference in Fiona's face: at least, she wore the same sour expression she had always turned on Sarah when she was a child. But her eyes were harder than Sarah remembered them being, and they grew harder still as a laugh rang out from elsewhere in the room, somewhere behind Sarah's right shoulder. Sarah knew that laugh, and it sent a wave of terror through her that set her struggling like a fish on a hook.

Fiona took a step back and pulled out her wand.

"A little taste of Crucio should settle her down," said a familiar female voice—the owner of the laugh.

"_Nooooo!_" Sarah screamed, bending as far double as her uncle's grip would let her, bracing herself as Fiona waved her wand.

"_Locomotor Mortis!_" Fiona said. As she put away her wand, she added, "You see, Bellatrix, it isn't always necessary to resort to such crude methods of persuasion."

The Leg-Locker curse had done its job, and Sarah was unable to move the lower half of her body. That did not stop her from continuing to struggle to pull her arms free. But as Fiona reached out with her slender hands and began running them over Sarah's robes, looking for the girl's wand, another danger became apparent. And Severian, who had been quiescent up to now, chose that moment to reinforce his mother's realization with a somersault that echoed the sensation in her heart. Within seconds, Fiona shrieked and stepped back, her face twisted with shock.

"Has she got some protective spell on her?" Bella asked, her amusement at the setback obvious in her voice.

Fiona didn't answer. Instead she grabbed the front of Sarah's robes and tried to jerk them open. When the buttons refused to give, she growled in her throat and began undoing them with frantic haste.

"What's the matter?" Franklin asked. Sarah had stopped struggling, frozen now with her own helplessness. The game was up.

"An illusion belt!" Fiona said, as she got enough of the buttons undone to reveal the magical device underneath. Bella, curious, finally moved into Sarah's field of vision. But all Sarah's attention was demanded by her aunt, who began raging at her: "How dare you! Little whore!" She lifted a hand, unexpectedly, and Sarah found herself reeling, her head ringing, her face stung from the open-handed blow. "She's pregnant, Franklin."

Her uncle emitted a stream of words foul enough to make Sarah quail.

"Opening your legs like any Knockturn whore. You little bitch!" Fiona shrieked at her. "How _dare_ you conceive a child with...with _that!_ How _dare_ you mingle the best blood of the wizarding world with...with _gutter refuse!_"

"I guess it's a good thing I picked a wizard," Sarah said, the corner of her mouth still stinging. "Goodness _knows_ what you'd say if I'd slept with a _Muggle_."

She knew that remark would merit a blow, and she let her head roll away from it this time, minimizing the impact. Although it still hurt. But it was worth it. An unaccustomed arrogance had risen up in her, making her ability to send her aunt into such transports of rage a very sweet thing...for a moment, at least, before her aunt's next words converted all to wormwood.

"We'll have to destroy it." The comment—which set Sarah writhing again and shouting _No!_—was aimed at Franklin, but it was Bella who answered first.

"How far along is she?"

Fiona fumbled at the belt, then drew it from around Sarah's waist. "Six or seven months."

"You'll have to wait," Bella said. "There's no safe way to rid her of it now. Any attempt, by potion _or_ spell, might kill her along with the child. And that would be rather difficult for you to explain to our Master, Fiona."

Sarah was glad to see Fiona's slight flinch and the look of terror that swept briefly across her face, leaving it less confident than before.

"You can't keep me here until then," Sarah said. "I'm expected back at school on Sunday." _That is, if Severus doesn't come for me first_. But she didn't say it, and the thought was tinged with fear for him—it would be three to one, if she couldn't get her wand back, and there was no knowing who else might be in the house.

"Your father would have been ashamed of you! He would have cast you out of the family for doing such a thing!" Fiona said, resorting to bitterness.

"If you had ever cared for me, I wouldn't have _had_ to resort to such a thing," Sarah retorted.

"Was that his price for teaching you the Dark Arts?"

In a sense, it had been. Or at least, if she hadn't slept with him, if she hadn't conceived his child, she would not be here now. She set her face in a defiant look. "I would have done it anyway."

Another slap. This one brought tears of pain to her eyes. Her head and neck were starting to develop a permanent ache, and the heavy books dragging on her arm were becoming almost unbearably uncomfortable.

"Have you no sense of pride in your name?" Fiona asked, still bitterly.

Sarah didn't answer, uncertain what she could say that wouldn't provoke her aunt to strike her again.

"I told you he was using you," Franklin said. "No doubt the child was his idea."

"What makes you think that?" Sarah said, truly perplexed for the first time since she had arrived, although she tried to cover it with a sneer.

She was surprised that his answer was a laugh; Bella joined him in it, and even Fiona's frown lightened a tad. Franklin said, "You don't see what a climber he is? He scrabbled his way up from Knockturn Alley, and he's scrabbled his way up in the Dark Lord's graces. He's risen further than any man has a right to expect. But it's not enough, is it? Not enough even to stand at the Dark Lord's right hand, and to bed the daughter of one of his betters. Thought he'd plant his seed higher than he could ever hope to reach himself."

"_It wasn't his idea!_" Sarah shouted, cutting him off. Why was she so appalled at the vision her uncle was outlining? It couldn't be true. It couldn't. There had been mutual attraction; there was nothing more to it than that.

Her assertion was met with more chuckles.

"Regardless," Fiona said. "The child will be disposed of when it's born. And you will marry someone suitable to your station in life."

"If you dare harm a hair of my baby's head, I'll make you wish you'd never been born yourself!" Sarah had never wanted to hurt someone as much as she wanted to hurt Fiona now. Franklin and Bella, too.

"It _is_ wizard born," Franklin said. "We needn't kill it. Surely someone would take it in. Perhaps Bella..."

"If I'd wanted a puling brat, I'd have had one of my own, Franklin," Bella said.

"I want it dead!" Fiona protested. "I won't have such an abomination walking the earth with my family's blood in its veins."

"It'll be a _wizard_, Fiona," Franklin said sharply, and the sense of command was palpable. "And of pure blood, regardless of how low. That's not a thing we can afford to throw away."

Fiona's expression tightened; as always, she would have to give way to her husband, but she was clearly more petulant about her concession this time than Sarah had ever noticed in her childhood. "If you can find someone willing to take that horrible man's get, then so be it. But I don't want to ever see it." She stalked out of the room.

"I won't marry Draco Malfoy," Sarah said, as much to her aunt's retreating back as to her elders who still remained in the room.

Bella laughed again. "I really don't think my darling nephew could handle you. Not yet, anyway. And not ever, if Lucius carries on training the boy as badly as he does."

"You're to marry Hannibal," Franklin said.

"My _first cousin?_" Sarah asked, aghast. Hannibal was the Notts' second son; she was a little surprised to learn that he had not married yet, since he had been almost eight years older than her. "Aren't the old families inbred enough? What kind of abominations _does_ my aunt want to have walking the earth with Darkglass blood in their veins?" She twisted her aunt's words mockingly, but inside she was afraid. She had once sat behind a sofa and listened to the wives of her father's friends discussing the grim fates of pureblood children who had been born with deformities or simple minds as a result of their parents' tangled family trees.

"A mere formality, to insure that your loyalties remain properly within your family," Franklin assured, and then he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "There are other options for children, you know. I'm only your uncle by marriage, and your children would still properly be Hannibal's heirs."

"You wouldn't dare!" Sarah gasped, her heart pounding even faster than it had been, and she struggled again, horrified at his touch, although only his words had changed that. "What does Fiona think of your little plan?"

"I'm sure she'd be just as happy, if it kept him out of her bed," Bella said, with a smirk.

"Shut up, Bellatrix," Franklin said.

"What about Hannibal? Does he know what you intend to do?" Sarah asked.

"He's rather too fond of his little Muggle mistress down in London, so he won't bother about you much. Though unless you want to tempt his ire by revealing that you've cuckolded him with his own father—oh yes," he interrupted her attempt to protest, "I'll make sure he knows that it was you who did the seducing—then you'll keep your mouth shut. I could Oblivate you, of course. But it's really rather better if I don't, since I wouldn't want you thinking you were actually carrying your cousin's child: you might do something...rash. But if you don't cooperate with me, that's exactly what you _will_ be doing."

Sarah felt helplessness overwhelming her in waves as he spoke. No, Severus would save her. Somehow. But would Katie even remember to give Angelina the message? Damn her mother's spells! No, she thought, scrambling for even a narrow ledge of hope, this was not something they could do to her in merely a weekend. If she was not in school on Monday, there would be people looking for her. McGonagall as well as Severus. Possibly even Professor Dumbledore.

Franklin went on, his voice almost a caress, urging, "Think of it, Sarah. You'll be mistress of Darkglass Hall." Her heart traitorously skipped a beat. "Besides, I thought you admired Hannibal when you were a child."

She had, but any foolish fondness in her memories of that long-ago, almost-grown-up, dark-haired boy was crushed by her uncle's insistent words. "No," she said flatly. "I won't marry him. And I most assuredly won't sleep with _you_.

"You _will_."

"What if our Master says differently?" It was appalling to be invoking protection from the Dark Lord, and equally appalling that it might be the only thing that could save her.

"We talked about Imperio earlier, Sarah. I daresay the Dark Lord will be willing to grant such an earnest request of Malcolm's daughter."

"He'd see that you were controlling me in an instant!"

Bella snorted softly. "But would he _care?_"

"What's your part in this?" Sarah turned her anger on the female Death Eater. "If I'm not marrying your nephew?"

"It's _you_ I'm interested in," Bella said. She grabbed Sarah's chin and held her head up, attempting to force her to meet her eyes. There was a subtle suggestiveness in her words that sent a chill through Sarah. But Bella laughed, as if she were mocking Sarah's sudden fear. "I want your mind, girl, not your body. Franklin, you've had your chance and bungled it. Let me try now."

"Remember our agreement, Bella!" Franklin warned.

"Of course I do. But you were hardly likely to get her to cooperate with you by treating her as you've done thus far. If you have a guest room prepared for her, I'll take her there and we'll have a little chat, woman to woman. Oh, by the way, Fiona never got her wand." Bella frisked Sarah efficiently, locating the wand in her pocket.

"I'll take that," Franklin said. He let Sarah go, wrenching her school bag away in the process, pushing her in the opposite direction with enough momentum to discourage any attempt to lunge back toward bag or wand. Fortunately, the Leg-Locker curse had worn off, but she stumbled a little on legs that had been subjected to magical control, and almost fell.

"Be careful with her!" Bella snapped. Looking as though she would rather spit at him than hand Sarah's wand over to him, she thrust the thirteen inches of beechwood with unicorn hair at Franklin. Sarah felt as if she had been stabbed with it herself, as a sharp despair pierced her heart. Without a wand, a witch was no better than a Squib. And if her uncle should break it—out of spite, or as an intentional means of maintaining his control over her—she would not be able to afford a new one.

"Gurgy will show you to the girl's quarters," Franklin said dismissively, pocketing Sarah's wand with an expression of disgust, and retrieving her bag from the floor. "Don't be so foolish as to leave the door unlocked when you've done with her, Bella. Although by then it may be suppertime. You'll be sent for."

Sarah watched Bella sneer at him as he strode out. But if she'd had any hope of catching the woman off-guard, it vanished as Bella whipped out her wand and trained it on Sarah.

"Just a little precaution. You needn't look so alarmed. I may be the best friend you have right now, Sarah Darkglass."

It was, horribly, most likely the truth.

"What do you want from me?" Sarah asked, not bothering to hide her suspicion. She rubbed at her wrists; it was difficult to remove the feel of her uncle's grip. Worse even than the furrow across her arm from her bag.

"First, to talk. Oh, I do want things from you," Bella said, obviously noting her disbelieving expression. "But let's clear the air a bit first. Make sure that we each know where the other stands."

"Fine," Sarah said. There was nothing to be gained at this point from resistance, not when Bella seemed willing to at least pretend to be civil.

"Fine ladies?" said a thin voice near the floor. It belonged to a house-elf, probably male, altogether gangly, and clad in a strip of patchwork that, upon closer inspection, proved to be a worn-out banner. "Master says Gurgy must be showing you to the troublesome girl's room now. If ladies like?" His impulse to show respect to guests was, quite obviously, badly at odds with his master's commands, and he looked confused and worried.

"We'll go with you, Gurgy," Sarah said gently. She didn't remember this house-elf; she wondered what had happened to old Jinna, who had always seen to it that young Sarah got a forbidden (had anyone else known about it) treat at bedtime.

Sarah followed the house-elf out of the room, nervously aware of Bella—whose wand was still drawn—shadowing her back. Gurgy silently led them through rooms and hallways that stirred dim memories up from the murky depths of the past. That funny little brown jug still sat on the shelf, the great clock still cut time in slices with its sword-shaped pendulum, and the old woman in the pink bonnet still snored inside her ornate frame up in the second floor hallway. But the room to which they were finally taken was altogether unfamiliar.

Sarah had always slept in her own little bed in the antechamber of her parents' suite when they came to visit her aunt and uncle. But this room, though furnished for a lady, was obviously intended to be a gilded prison. The outside of the door sported a series of complicated locks, and there were bars on the lone window. A quick glance around the room revealed nothing that could readily be used as a weapon.

"Gurgy is not allowed to talk with the troublesome girl," the house-elf said, facing Bella to fulfill the obvious requirement, although his eyes were swiveled toward Sarah. "But Gurgy hears Master say she must obey or bad things happens, so Gurgy warns her: do not resist Master."

"I'm sure she realizes that," Bella said dryly. "Now follow _your _orders and leave us!"

With a sharp squeak, the house-elf vanished.

* * *

Sarah hugged herself tightly. "What do you want with me, Bellatrix?" 

"I see you've dropped any pretense of respect for your elders. There's no doubt who we have to thank for that."

Sarah did not answer, but stood waiting, fixing the older woman with a rigid stare.

Bella's face became a mask of secret contemplation. "Do you trust your lover?"

"What do you mean?" Sarah asked, as her heart jumped into a gallop again.

"Do you believe Severus Snape is loyal to the Dark Lord?"

"Of course," Sarah stammered, hoping that she sounded baffled instead of anxious. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"I have reasons to wonder," Bella said coolly. "Perhaps you will wonder, too, when I've told them to you."

Desperate to reassure the woman, Sarah said, "If he's not loyal to our cause, I'll kill him myself." _And I will, too_, she thought, _if I've gone through all this for nothing_.

Bella smiled a shark-like smile. "Men don't understand that, do they? Women are capable of being so much deadlier than men, given the right motivation. There are too few women in the Dark Lord's service."

"And this relates to me how?" Sarah asked. "I can hardly join the Inner Circle if I'm being kept captive to breed for _them_." She jerked her head toward the door to indicate her relatives.

"Do you want to join the Inner Circle?"

Sarah's throat tightened, and she blinked. Finally she managed, "I wish to serve in whatever capacity the Dark Lord sees fit."

"Even if that means being raped by your uncle?" Bella mocked.

Sarah sank down in a chair and brought her hands to her face. If the Dark Lord saw fit...she might very well be as trapped as her uncle believed her to be: her baby, her wand and Severus all taken from her.

"Is he any good?"

Sarah lifted her head, puzzled. "_What?_"

"Is Severus Snape any good in bed?" Bella asked. She had sat down on the edge of the bed, and now she laid back, stretching sensuously, her long, black hair spilling loosely around her head. "I admit I was tempted to find out, when we were in school. Appearance is hardly ever an indicator of talent. But I never quite managed to convince myself to stoop so...low." She sat up again, studying Sarah with hooded eyes. "Well?"

Sarah found herself at a complete loss—her face was hot and her mouth gaped partly open as she tried to manufacture some clever comment and failed utterly. She felt, at that moment, entirely like the schoolgirl she was. "Yes, yes he is," she stammered.

Bella laughed. "Oh, how quaint! You've never been with anyone else, have you?"

The wit that had eluded her a moment ago rushed with full force into Sarah's tongue. "Is that a requirement for female Death Eaters? Having taken a certain number of men into your bed?" she asked acidly.

Anger flashed sharply for a moment in Bella's eyes, but she mastered it. "You're still very young. You may change your mind about such things as you...mature." The last word held as much acid as Sarah's comment had. "And I must admit you've been quite successful at something I never attempted: seducing one's professor."

Sarah cringed inwardly at the picture the older woman's words painted; even Professor McGonagall had not been able to make her feel so ashamed. With a few words, Bella had managed to pull Sarah down to her own level, had managed to make her feel right at home there.

Bella smirked. "You're not one of their meek little women and you know it. I can help you there."

"Why did my uncle invite you here? It sounds to me as if what you're offering and what he wants from me are at cross purposes."

Bella stood and began pacing. "It was obvious to me that he was very unlikely to convince you to cooperate in his plans. And keeping a prisoner is so tedious—so many things can go wrong. Indeed, they already have. Your present condition makes it quite impossible to carry out his original intention of marrying you to your cousin this very weekend."

_Dear God_. Had her uncle really dared to risk presenting her before the Dark Lord already wed—a fait accompli? Of course, that was also the risk that Severus was taking...

"Where do you come in?" Sarah asked.

"I suggested to Franklin that a slight delay in his plans might be worthwhile if I could secure your eventual cooperation. The Dark Lord needs faithful Death Eaters to achieve his victory, not pureblood broodmares. But it was clear to me at the meeting that Severus doesn't want you to take the Dark Mark." She threw back her head, as if she would laugh, but instead she exclaimed, "How he must enjoy having you under his thumb! He does, you know—just as much as Franklin wishes to." Bella leveled her chin again. "I believe better of you than he does."

"But he's right," Sarah said, although she felt strangely ashamed at what she was saying. "I _can't_ Apparate very well. And my real talents _are_ with potions."

"That keeps you where he wants you: in his bed and under his control! Sweet Merlin, how can you bear that? I can understand that you would take advantage of the temporary benefits, but he is not even your equal!"

Sarah's eyes prickled with unshed tears. She did not know how to answer.

"Do you fancy yourself _in love_ with him?" Bella did laugh then, her horrible, piercing laugh.

"No one else loves me," Sarah mumbled.

"Nor does he, foolish girl! You heard what your uncle said. And I've known Severus since my third year at Hogwarts: he was never content with his station in life, and he always knew just who to kiss up to, in order to rise in the world. Severus cares only for himself."

Sarah shook her head.

"Do you think he serves the Dark Lord out of loyalty?" Bella went on. "He knows power when he sees it. When he thought our Master had fallen, he was quick enough to lick Dumbledore's boots, as his next best option. Even now, I don't trust him. Nor should you."

It was fascinating and useful—the cool, detached part of Sarah's mind thought—that Bella assumed that Sarah was loyal. But to the rest of her mind, that was merely a matter of academic interest. Bella was wrong about Severus. Franklin was wrong.

"Why shouldn't I?" Sarah asked. "He's done more for me than any of you."

"Did you know that he prevented the Dark Lord from obtaining the Philosopher's Stone four years ago? While so many of us sat in prison, he sat in Dumbledore's pocket. He's had every opportunity to destroy Harry Potter for five long years, and he hasn't lifted a finger against the boy. What excuses does he have? Has it never occurred to you to ask him?"

_And at what point_, Sarah wondered, _will you begin to suspect me?_

"He's the Dark Lord's spy inside Hogwarts, isn't he? He would hardly be an effective spy if he revealed his true loyalties."

"He's hardly an effective spy if he can't find a way to act secretly!" Bella spat. "With Harry Potter out of the way, and Dumbledore becoming a doddering old man, the Dark Lord's victory is assured."

"Perhaps," Sarah suggested, "Severus was afraid that he would meet the same fate as our Master did, if he tried to kill Potter. No one knew how the boy did it. _I_ certainly wouldn't dare to attempt something that nearly killed the most powerful wizard in the world."

"The little Gryffindor isn't so courageous?"

"I never claimed to be. Would _you_ have attempted it?"

Bella's sneering face went blank for a moment. "I would do anything my Master ordered me to do!"

"Perhaps the Dark Lord has never _ordered_ Severus to attempt to kill Potter." She hoped she was right about that. No, she must be, else the Dark Lord would not trust him.

"Believe in him if you choose, then," Bella said, exaggerating a shrug. "I should have known better than to try to convince his lover otherwise. But just remember what I said."

"And you remember what _I_ said," Sarah returned. "If his loyalty fails, I'll kill him myself."

"Are you actually capable of that, girl? Do you know any spells for killing?"

"I told you, I know potions."

"You think so little of his knowledge that you believe you could poison him unawares?"

Sarah pressed her lips together hard.

"Have you ever cast an Unforgivable?"

"No," Sarah admitted. "I'm not keen on going to Azkaban."

The word sent a spasm across Bella's face, which she turned quickly into a sneer. "Then how do you to intend to prevent your uncle from having his way?"

"Surely it's up to the Dark Lord to decide," Sarah said, laying that terrible card down again. "And I know my uncle isn't among the highest in his favor in the Inner Circle."

"The Dark Lord will indulge you, I feel quite sure, in whatever you request. He has more important business than to waste his time deciding what to do with you. Everyone knows that. Certainly Severus knows it—if the Dark Lord learns that you are carrying Severus's child, it is more than likely he will grant the spoils where you have already given them."

Sarah could not keep her heart from rising at this. Even Bella believed that they had good chance. "Then why should I cooperate with anyone else, if the Dark Lord is prepared to give me what I want?"

"Do you not _understand_, girl?" Bella raised her voice. "No one else is prepared to let you have what you so foolishly believe you want. Franklin _will_ keep you prisoner here, if he must. He is quite prepared to use the Imperius curse if you refuse to cooperate on your own. He even mentioned using the Fidelius Charm to hide you from Severus. Your child will be taken from you, so you'll never see it again. And in a trice you'll be flat on your back, doped up with fertility potions."

Sarah could not bear to hear any more of this horrible litany. "Then what do _you_ have to offer me? Didn't you promise my uncle you'd get me to cooperate?"

"On your own terms! You want Darkglass Hall, don't you? A marriage of convenience to Hannibal would give that back to you."

"The price is too high!" Sarah averred, but her heart flinched at her declaration. There was truly no other way to get it back.

"By the time I finish training you, your uncle won't dare to lay a finger on you. As a Death Eater of the Inner Circle, no one would have any idea of you bearing a child until our victory is complete. And there's something more that Franklin doesn't know; perhaps even the Dark Lord doesn't know: once you take the Dark Mark you'll be sterile."

Sarah blinked. "How do you know that?" she asked anxiously.

"I had to put a stop to more than one pregnancy when I was in school," Bella said, with a slight toss of her head that seemed a bit too flippant for real indifference. "After I took the Dark Mark, I never conceived again."

_You might have destroyed your own fertility_, Sarah thought, _with so many potions_. But the idea was still chilling. Not that she had thought further than Severian. But if they were going to take him away from her...if she could never have another child...

Bella went on, "So you see, you could take whatever lovers you please, with adequate discretion...even your precious Potions master, if he doesn't prove to be a traitor."

"And my son?" Sarah laid a hand reflexively on the curve of her stomach, as a tiny, silent drumbeat of kicks demanded her attention.

"You can bear him in secret. Choose his foster parents yourself. Give him to his _father_ if you want to," Bella finished disdainfully.

It was impossible to agree—Sarah had a clear image in her mind of what Bella's training would be like, and she wanted nothing of it: it would break her—and yet, with so few other options, the temptation was more profound than she would have imagined. A marriage to Hannibal would be null and void, but none of them need know that except herself and Severus. Darkglass Hall would be hers. Severian would be safe.

_And I would become whatever Bellatrix Lestrange chooses to make me..._

Something had been niggling at her since she first saw the woman here in her uncle's house, and now, struggling for something to say, her mind lighted upon it again. "Why would you make this deal with the Notts instead of the Malfoys?"

"Perhaps I want to see my sister have grandchildren," Bella said, but her hesitation before answering had been a tad too long.

"Lucius wouldn't agree with your plan, would he?"

"Lucius would rather count on our Master's favor to secure you for Draco," Bella sneered.

"Then he doesn't know what my uncle intends?"  
"Of course not! He'd be here in an instant. Not that it would do him any good. Franklin has guards around the house, and I helped him increase the wards myself."

"So much for family loyalty," Sarah said, scoffing.

"My loyalty is to the Dark Lord!" Bella's face contorted. "My plan would serve him best."

"It wouldn't hurt your favor with him, either. But suppose that Severus is right about my abilities?"

"Then I'll abandon you to your fate," Bella snapped. "If you aren't willing to make the effort."

"Hardly an incentive to agree, is it?"

"You prefer the alternative? Or do you really think that Severus will even attempt to save you?" Bella mocked. "If you refuse me, I won't stand in your uncle's way, whatever he chooses to do. And I doubt he's been twiddling his thumbs, waiting to see if I can persuade you. He'll have thought of something else. If he can shut Fiona up, he might even claim that this child is Hannibal's. And he'd make sure you couldn't or wouldn't deny it."

"I couldn't begin your training until after my baby is born," Sarah protested. If she pretended to agree, that might at least allow her to return to Hogwarts at the end of the weekend unharmed.

"Oh, I'm willing to wait." Bella looked smug. It would have been easy for Sarah, at that moment, to say "yes, I'll do it," then to wait until later, until she was safe, to tell Bella where to stuff it. But breaking such an agreement, once it was made, would mean making an enemy of the woman forever, and there was something about Bella's eyes—perhaps a lingering madness from her years in Azkaban—that hinted at how dangerous that would be. More dangerous than making an enemy of any two men in the Dark Lord's Inner Circle.

Sarah took a deep breath. "I need to think."

"Think all you like," Bella said. "But don't think too long."

* * *

**A/N:** Some of you may recognize the house-elf Gurgy's name from _The Black Cauldron_, but in this case, I'm actually paying tribute to the best familiar I ever had in an RP game: he was a land calamar (and yes, he _was_ named after Lloyd Alexander's character Gurgi) with a penchant for undoing buckles and picking pockets, often with hilarious (and occasionally with helpful) results. It seemed like a useful name for a house-elf. 

And before anyone asks, Bella is wrong about the effects of the Dark Mark. In her case, it was simply a coincidence (although Sarah may well be right in her supposition that Bella's repeated abuse of potions contributed to her infertility; STDs may have played a role, too—sorry, I've opted for Slut!Bella here). But I daresay it makes Bella feel better to believe that she's sacrificed something substantial for the Dark Lord's cause.


	38. Ch 37: All the Creme de la Creme

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** If you believe that I really think I own Harry Potter, you've been drinking too many potions. Try to sleep it off. :)

**A/N:** Sorry to leave Sarah in such a tight spot for so long! Unfortunately, she's not going to get out of this one quite as easily as she'd like. The good news is that I'm catching up on being slightly ahead, since the beta-ing of this chapter took a bit longer than usual (no blame to my betas, mind you!), so the next chapter will be posted rather sooner than later. And we _will_ see something of Severus next chapter, never fear!

Many, many lovely people, new and old, reviewed the last chapter. So a great big thank you to Lady Whitehart, lucidity, AlanaRose12, Withered Lover, Sammy Cyanide, serena, BradyB66, Darla, Owlbait, Serenity Wolf, pipeline, Hypatia Cade, cecelle, and Mr./Ms. Anon! Your praises make my day. And double thanks to Lady Whitehart and cecelle for their beta-ly input!

* * *

**Chapter 37: All the Crème de la Crème**

Supper was rather later than Sarah expected. She was in the habit, at Hogwarts, of eating early in the evening, and Aunt Portia had kept very regular hours. Sarah had forgotten the rhythm of life in a great house, and she had been hungry for some time before Gurgy reappeared to walk her down. In spite of his diminutive form, she understood perfectly well that she was a prisoner, and that if she tried to be "troublesome" to his master, he would use his own magic to prevent her escape...or be punished for failing to do so.

Bella had left her—locked in, of course—to her thoughts, and while that was less cruel than other things the woman might have done, it was still a torment. Sarah found that the possibility of being able to have everything she desired was eating away at her resolve. True, she and Severus would not be able to live as man and wife if she accepted Bella's offer. But was there _any_ possibility of them doing so, no matter what choices she made? All the same, the idea of keeping him as a secret paramour offended her sensibilities somehow. Perhaps because, whatever Bella thought, she simply wasn't that kind of woman.

But why should it matter? It wasn't as if she would be legally married to Hannibal, so she could not technically be unfaithful to him. There was even a meager possibility of explaining the situation to her cousin, enlisting his sympathy because he had an unacceptable mistress of his own. But Sarah didn't like to count on it. She had not seen him in nine years, and there was no way of knowing to what degree he had turned out to be his father's son. Hannibal might well insist on his "marital rights," simply for the sake of his pride. And his father's insistence that he attempt to produce an acceptable heir would be hanging over his head, regardless of how he felt toward her.

If she refused him categorically, there was likely to be trouble, sooner or later: her uncle might involve himself in the situation, no matter what Bella did to discourage him. And as sweet as the thought was of pawning off a child of Severus's as Hannibal's heir, realistically, too many of the wrong people now knew of her relationship with Severus for that to be feasible, even if she could bring herself to sleep with Hannibal just enough to make him believe that the child was his.

The thought of cuckolding Severus, even for their mutual benefit, even with someone relatively unobjectionable, made her feel ill. Perhaps that was the magical binding of their marriage ceremony—she had heard that it was supposed to make it uncomfortable to be unfaithful, although undoubtedly people like Lucius Malfoy managed to overcome whatever discomfort it caused easily enough. And Bella...clearly Bella had been sampling a variety of men's talents since she had first understood was sex was; even though she was married to Rodolphus Lestrange, it hardly seemed likely that she was faithful to him. _But_, Sarah thought, _I felt this way even before we were married_.

Would one binding ceremony supersede another, magically? Regardless of legalities? It was an awful thought. But how could she insist upon a different kind of ceremony without raising her uncle's suspicions? The only other reasonable alternative, for a Nott, was a church ceremony. And Sarah was not prepared to stand before God and make a vow that was lie.

She would not give Severus up. Bella's offer made it possible to avoid that, no matter how ugly the life she would have to lead in return. And Severian—who had been keeping up a steady, if erratic, reminder of his presence since their arrival here—Severian would be safe. And he would know her as his mother, at the least, from visits that would be as frequent as she could manage. Also, if something should happen to Hannibal...

Sarah had never contemplated murder before. But how much easier her life would be if Hannibal should die conveniently soon after their marriage! She would hold Darkglass Hall in her own right again, even if she had to tolerate hosting the Dark Lord now and then. (Severus had told her that he seldom remained in one place too long, lest the Aurors manage to locate his headquarters.) She might even be able to bring Severian home to her. She might have the influence and power by then to marry Severus openly, regardless of even Bella's opinion.

But would she have the will, by then, to defy Bella? Sweet Merlin, how far had she already sunk into Bella's clutches, if she could consider killing her cousin purely for her own benefit? Sarah lay on the bed and wept, at that thought. Severian had quieted, tired from all his activity, perhaps, and even with her hand on the swell of her belly, she felt terribly alone.

_I don't know what to do! I just don't know what to do!_

Severus would know. He was experienced at such games of evasion and deceit. If only she could speak with him...somehow...

At a sudden thought, Sarah jerked herself to her feet (she had wanted to _spring_ to her feet, but that was becoming impossible) and made her way to the fireplace. Undoubtedly, the Floo was set to prevent departures, and probably even arrivals from anywhere outside the building, just as the fireplaces at Hogwarts were. But it might still be possible to talk through the Floo, if they hadn't thought of blocking that as well.

Whether they had thought of it or not was moot: there was no Floo powder, or even a box that might once have contained any. The room was, in fact, appallingly bare of useful items, she discovered, as she made the rounds. The vanity contained a small blunt-toothed comb and a matching hairbrush, a basic set of cosmetics, and a tiny mirror embedded in a thick frame. The wardrobe contained only clothing, although it was clothing of the highest style. A small bookcase held a selection of Wizarding novels of the most lurid sort. The desk was empty except for a stack of parchment and a couple of quills labeled "Keene's Finest Self-Sharpening" along their shafts; the metal inkwell built into the desk had a small amount of ink in the bottom.

That was _something_, at least—writing materials. Little good it did her, however, without an owl. A smallish owl might even fit through the bars on the window, if she'd had one she could call to her. But she didn't. So that was that.

Wait...could Severus possibly send _her_ an owl, one of the school's? Not that he would have any idea whether she was in a situation where she could receive an owl privately. And, Sarah remembered abruptly, there was Umbridge's post-screening system. It could take a letter days to get in or out of Hogwarts. _Damn!_ In a fit of pique, Sarah swept the stack of parchments off the desktop. She watched the sheets slide across each other as they poured off the edge of the desk...and realized something that made her heart leap in the first real hope she'd had since the Portkey had snatched her away.

Tucked down in a corner of her school bag was the bottle of ink she had made with Severus months and months ago. And tucked between the pages of her Astronomy text was the cheap, flowery bookmark.

Franklin had taken her bag away when he had left her to Bella's tender mercies. Now she had to find some way to get it back.

* * *

Sarah followed Gurgy into the dining room with a better will that she had expected to have. Her aunt and uncle were already there, as was Bellatrix. To her surprise, her oldest cousin was present as well, grown into a slightly more solid version of his father. A timid-looking young woman with dull blonde hair sat next to him. Her cousin Hannibal was missing. As was her cousin Theodore. Would it even occur to Umbridge that the boy should have gone home as well, if Sarah was supposed to be attending his mother's birthday celebration? 

Franklin rose and pulled out the empty seat at his right for her. As she sat down, he said, "You won't have read the notice, perhaps. Chester was married last year. This is Niniane."

The girl nodded at Sarah, across the table, with just the hint of a smile touching her lips.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Niniane," Sarah said, smiling slightly in return. She wished she hadn't. The girl's eyes lit up with a kind of desperate hope, as if she hoped for a friend...or, more likely, a rescuer. _I can't save you_, Sarah replied to those eyes; _I can't even save myself_.

Fiona spoke up, a sour look down her nose at Sarah suggesting that she approved of her daughter-in-law in ways that she would never approve of her niece. "Niniane is the granddaughter of Bellatrix's aunt, Cassiopeia Black Penhallow."

So, that was the connection. Not that there wasn't always apt to be one, among the old families. But it made Bella's entrée into Franklin's plot less unlikely than Sarah had thought.

Food appeared on their plates, wine in their glasses.

"Excuse me," Sarah said distinctly, as the others lifted their silverware. "I'm afraid, Uncle Franklin, that I don't quite trust you."

"What are you talking about?" Franklin growled, lowering the spoon he was about to plunge into his soup.

"Perhaps you wouldn't do anything to try to hurt me," Sarah said. "But are you quite sure that Aunt Fiona feels the same?" She sent a sweetly poisonous look toward her aunt, at the other end of the table. "I know I would feel better if, for instance, I were to trade plates with her."

Chester snorted faintly, surprising Sarah with a hint of humor, as everyone at the table turned to Fiona. The woman opened and shut her mouth, as if she did not know what to say. Finally, her expression hardening, she summoned a pair of house-elves. "I don't know how you can believe such things of your own father's sister," Fiona said, sounding as if she were deeply hurt. "Or why you would make such a ridiculous request. But I suppose I'll have to humor you." She gave a terse order, and the house-elves exchanged their soup plates.

"Oh," Sarah added, when it seemed the house-elves were about to be dismissed. "I would also feel better if I were to trade glasses with Bellatrix."

"What is the meaning of this stupid game?" Fiona snapped. But Bella was laughing in apparent pleasure.

"You can hardly blame her, Fiona." The female Death Eater gestured for a house-elf to do as Sarah had asked. "Do warn me," Bella added, as the glasses were exchanged, "if I'm about to drink something hazardous to my health. I imagine you'd be rather sorry if I suffered anything untoward." The cold edge on her voice left no doubt that she was making a threat.

Fiona said nothing, sniffing her offense at the suggestion.

Niniane was watching Sarah with wide eyes. Sarah picked up her new glass. "Simply a matter of good faith," she remarked to the girl. But she had to conceal a shudder as she swallowed, hoping that her request had not been anticipated somehow. It was always possible that Fiona might have added something to _all_ the wine...something that would only affect a pregnant woman. But Niniane's presence made that less likely—risking their eldest son's heir (assuming the possibility of pregnancy) for the sake of damaging her niece's child was a poor exchange—and Sarah favored the baffled girl with a small, genuine grin.

One small step managed: she wouldn't starve...at least not tonight. The rest was going to be more difficult to pull off, and Sarah tried to steady her nerves as she finished her soup in the uncomfortable silence which followed her first performance.

"I'm rather surprised to see that my proposed fiancé isn't here," she commented, as the soup plates vanished. Indeed, Hannibal's absence rather suggested that he was not in on his parents' plot, meaning they feared he might be as recalcitrant as his intended bride. Sarah had hoped to see her uncle squirm, and she was not disappointed.

"Have you decided to cooperate, then?" Franklin asked gruffly.

Sarah allowed the pause before she spoke to lengthen discomfitingly. "I am still thinking about it," she said, finally, when she thought she could trust her voice. "Certain things concern me."

"Such as?" Franklin said. The next course appeared, and he raised his fork.

"What are you willing to give in return if I agree?"

There was a clatter from the other end of the table as Fiona dropped some piece of silverware onto her plate. "Your place is to obey, not to make demands!"

"If my father were alive," Sarah said, "I would agree with you. But he isn't. I am responsible for myself now. If I don't look out for my best interests, who else will? Obviously not _you_."

Bella laughed. Sarah was growing to hate that laugh. How could she agree to place herself in a position where she could never again escape it?

"She can hardly want very much," Franklin said to his wife. He turned to his niece. "Well, what is it you're asking for?"

"Well, first," Sarah said, turning her wineglass in her hands, studying it, trying to keep it from shaking. "Obviously the wedding cannot take place before October." Let them think she was not as far along as she truly was.

"The wedding need not take place for several years," Bella said sharply.

"Perhaps she's decided to bargain with us instead of you," Fiona said, a smug expression stealing over her face.

"I'm thinking about _all_ my options," Sarah said. She met Bella's surprised and angry look as firmly as she could. She wasn't sure if Bella knew Legilimency, but she used Occlumency all the same to project the image of a savvy girl taking stock of everything she might get from this situation. A girl who might listen if Bella upped her offer in some way. The slightly disconcerted flicker in the woman's eyes suggested that Bella did not have much more to bargain with than she had already lain on the table.

_Good_.

"Obviously the wedding would have to wait until...certain things are resolved," Franklin said. As if Chester and Niniane hadn't seen her condition when she came to the table!

"In the meanwhile," Sarah pressed onward, "I'll have certain...needs."

Franklin raised his eyebrows, and a quick glance at Fiona revealed that the woman had turned a bit green. Bella, predictably, snorted. So, let them think for a minute that she was talking about Severus.

"Are you suggesting that I leave you to your own devices until that time?" Franklin asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, among other things," Sarah said.

"Which would be?"

Sarah took a deep breath. "Thanks to you, I have no money."

"What are you talking about?" Franklin interrupted. "Unless the Plattuses are worse spendthrifts than I ever imagined, you should have a significant sum remaining to you from the sale of the Hall."

"A sum that is not," Sarah said, "under my control at the present. When my loyalties became known to my other aunt—who was appointed my guardian, you'll recall, without any protest from you—she cut me off."

"All the more reason that you should remain here," Fiona put in.

"I will _not_ remain here," Sarah said, feeling her anger rise and seep into her words. "If I marry Hannibal, I will go back to my home at Darkglass Hall. But I will not spend a single night more than I must under this roof, Aunt Fiona!"

"You want money," Franklin said. "How much?"

"A thousand Galleons should see me through the summer."

"A thou—" Fiona began to protest.

"Be still," Franklin ordered. He turned back to Sarah. "A thousand Galleons. What else?"

_Be careful, Sarah. Oh so careful._

"I've worked too long and too hard to give up on my N.E.W.T.s now. I need to study this weekend, and I need to return to school."

"You hardly need—" Fiona began again, but once more Franklin cut her off.

"You will not leave here until you agree to cooperate," he told Sarah bluntly.

"I'm aware of that," Sarah said. Her voice quavered. "And I intend to give you an answer before Sunday evening. But I need time to consider my options. And worrying that I will do poorly on my N.E.W.T.s because I haven't studied is not something that will help me to think clearly about where my best interests lie."

Silence, then. Not a heavy silence. Not even really a puzzled silence. Franklin looked thoughtful as he tucked into his forgotten food. No one had eaten much, except for Chester. The expression on his face said clearly that he was glad Sarah was not his problem.

The next course appeared, and Sarah demanded (and got) another change of plates, this time with Niniane, who reacted to the switch with sufficient alarm that Sarah felt a twinge of guilt; the girl put her fork aside and would not eat, although Chester coaxed her mildly.

"She wants something from her bag," Bella announced abruptly. When Sarah looked up, she met triumphant eyes.

"I want my books," Sarah hissed. Although if Franklin or Fiona insisted on giving her only her books, all this effort would have been for nothing.

"Bring me her school bag," Fiona commanded, and one of the ubiquitous but unseen house-elves obeyed within seconds. Fiona dumped out the contents unceremoniously on the floor, and began feeling at the seams, as if Sarah had hidden a whole slew of escape equipment there, in anticipation of being kidnapped.

"Did you have to interrupt dinner, Fiona?" Franklin sighed.

"Did you bother to examine it before?" Fiona replied testily. "There could have been something in here the whole time to allow him to track her here."

"It isn't as if Severus wouldn't be able to figure out where she is," Bella pointed out. "If he even realizes she's gone yet."

Fiona, disgusted at her failure to find anything untoward about the bag itself, bent down and began sorting through the items that had fallen out. Sarah concentrated on her food, trying hard not to take too much notice of what Fiona was doing. There should be nothing there to excite suspicion: a standard collection of Potions supplies, textbooks on her subjects, pieces of parchment, quills and two bottles of ink. No extra wand. No Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. No Portkeys (except for the one hanging hidden around her neck, which she could not use).

"_What is it you wanted!_" Fiona asked shrilly.

"I want," Sarah said tightly, "my things so I can study."

"Don't give her back the Potions materials," Bella said. "If she's as bright as Severus says she is, she could manage something, even if it's only her standard kit. And be sure that's ink," she added.

It took every bit of Occlumency training, every shred of will she possessed for Sarah to go on eating unconcernedly while Fiona uncorked each bottle, sniffed it, and drew a flourish across a scrap of parchment using one of Sarah's quills. One black, one green. Nothing unusual. A lot of girls carried three or four different colors. Sarah had even seen hot pink, which glowed in the dark and smelled like candy floss.

"Let me," Bella said, frowning as her prediction of Sarah's duplicity was proven false.

Fiona passed the bottles along, her expression wavering between continued suspicion and smug delight at Bella's mistake. "I don't suppose ink is likely to be poisonous, is it?"

"Not particularly." Bella took one and held it up to the light.

"Could she have Transfigured something?" Chester suggested. "Maybe one of those quills is really a broom." There was the slightest edge in his voice that hinted he was not serious, but it was only by looking at him and seeing a revealing twinkle in his eye that Sarah could tell he was poking a bit of fun at his mother.

Fiona did not notice that he was mocking her; she looked rather alarmed at the possibility he had brought up. She drew her wand and tapped each of the quills, the parchment, and then the bag itself, hissing, "_Specialis revelio!_"

_If she checks the books, or—heaven forbid—the ink..._

"Fiona, she had no time to prepare anything in advance," Franklin said wearily. "She was entirely surprised by my appearance, and she resisted sufficiently that I have no doubt she believed there would be no hope of escape or rescue."

Bella, having finished her inspection of the ink, shook her head and handed it back to her hostess.

Fiona sniffed. "I still see no reason we should take the risk of giving in to her request."

"If you don't allow me to study," Sarah said, taking a final risk of her own in desperation, "then I'll have to conclude that Bella may have more to offer me than you're willing to."

Fiona's face immediately registered her dismay.

"The house is well-warded," Franklin pointed. "And the house-elves will warn us if she attempts anything. Let her have her books."

"Thank you, Uncle Franklin," Sarah said, mustering all the grace she could manage. She glanced around the table. Fiona was, as usual, displeased. Chester continued to register faint amusement, while Niniane looked vaguely concerned, as if she, too, had expected Fiona to discover something. Bella, still eying Sarah warily, let a hungry smile crease her lips ever so slightly. Feeling that she needed to keep Bella hopeful, Sarah returned the smile quickly, with the barest of nods.

"Remove all this to her room," Fiona snapped, kicking disdainfully at the scatter of books and papers on the floor beside her. Gurgy appeared, hastily gathered everything back into the bag, and disappeared with it.

"I hope you're satisfied," Fiona said, her tone indicating that she was not.

"Did you not allow Eleanor to get her N.E.W.T.s?" Sarah asked. She wondered vaguely whom her cousin had married and when.

"Fiona?" There was—oddly—something almost soothing in Franklin's voice. "There's no point in preventing her, when she's this close."

Fiona did not answer; she would not even raise her eyes to look at her husband. To Sarah's surprise, even Chester appeared to have sobered. Sarah looked across the table at Niniane; the girl's hazel eyes were wide and troubled.

* * *

The meal was finally over, and Sarah was permitted to excuse herself to go to her books, although both Fiona and Bella still seemed to doubt the wisdom of allowing her to do so. It was only when Sarah had left the dining room and was well on her way back to her gilded prison, with Gurgy shambling mournfully along in the lead, that she allowed herself a deep breath. She had done it. Not without some suspicion arising, but she had done it. Now, if only Severus thought to check... 

"Sarah?" a thin voice called behind her. She turned to see Niniane hurrying to catch up with her.

"Yes?" Sarah asked, dismay also overtaking her. Could her aunt have sent Niniane to be a chaperone over her studies?

Niniane did not speak until she was close enough to whisper. "_Do_ you have a way to escape?"

"I'm sorry. I don't," Sarah said. "I wish I did. Do they treat you terribly?"

Niniane shrugged and shook her head at the same time, leaving a good deal of doubt about what she meant. "Do you know that your uncle is a Death Eater?" she asked anxiously, her face going paler than before, making a smattering of freckles stand out across her nose. She must be at least three or four years older, since Sarah didn't remember her particularly from Hogwarts, but right now she seemed nearly as young.

"Yes, I know that," Sarah said, not bothering to feign any concern about the fact.

"He wants Chester to...to do it, too."

"I can't stop my cousin from making his own choices."

"Chester doesn't want to, really," Niniane hurried to explain. "He'd rather wait and see how things turn out. I'm just afraid that..."

Sarah was not sure that she cared, at this point, what Niniane was afraid of, but the girl found her voice and went on.

"I'm afraid of the sort of person he'll become, if he lets his father convince him. Chester's been...well, _decent_ to me...and I don't want that to change."

"What do you expect from me?" Sarah asked, impatiently. "Right now I'm trapped in my uncle's schemes as well."

Niniane's face fell. "I don't know," she confessed. "I thought maybe you could encourage Chester not to give in. Or tell me what to say to him."

"Niniane, I haven't seen Chester in _nine_ years. How would I know what to say? Do you know what it is they _want_ from me?"

"To marry Hannibal. And I wish you would. I'm so lonely here. No one my age ever even comes to visit." The girl's hazel eyes were large as she looked pleadingly at Sarah.

"What about Eleanor?" Sarah asked.

"You don't know?" Niniane asked. "I wondered, when you brought her up at dinner."

"I don't read society news. I just don't." It was too much of a reminder of the life her mother had taken her from. She had never had reason to think she would need to know.

"I don't think it was in the papers," Niniane said. "I think that your uncle kept it quiet."

"What?" It sounded ominous.

"It happened years before I came, but Chester told me. A wizard—a Russian, I think, or something like that—had come to visit on some business or other, and he liked the look of Eleanor. She didn't want to go with him—she wasn't quite finished with school yet—but he was someone important in his own country, and the Notts thought it would be to their advantage and made her go." The girl lowered her voice. "They've never heard from her again. Her husband claims that she ran away from him—he was apparently quite angry about it. But Chester thinks...well...that maybe he killed her." This last was spoken in a whisper, and Niniane frowned anxiously.

Sarah felt more staggered than she would have thought possible, if anyone had told her a few weeks ago that she would be hearing such a tale. Her aunt and uncle had sent their only daughter unwillingly into a tragic marriage—an unwillingness that had likely cost Eleanor her life—and yet they thought nothing of forcing their niece into the same position! No wonder Fiona and Bella had been concerned about potential poisons: they had no way of knowing whether Sarah might follow her mother's example, rather than cooperate with them. Sarah grimaced inwardly. No wonder they wanted to control her every movement!

"Niniane, I can't help you. I'll be lucky if I can help myself. Do you know what your cousin Bellatrix wants from me?" Sarah asked, her voice tightening with frustration...more at her own situation than at the girl, although the girl was awfully easy to take it out on.

Niniane shook her head, looking puzzled.

"She wants _me_ to become a Death Eater," Sarah said. Then, when the girl quailed, she went on flippantly, "Surely you knew that Bellatrix Lestrange was a Death Eater. She went to Azkaban for it."

"You're...you're...not going to...?" Niniane asked, her face a mask of awe and terror.

Sarah didn't know what to say in response to that. Mainly because she didn't know the answer herself. Unable to tolerate this conversation any longer, she turned on her heel and strode away, requiring Gurgy to scramble to catch up with her. As she heard Niniane burst into tears behind her, Sarah felt pain and regret harden into a small, cold knot inside her heart.

* * *

**A/N:** I put in another L. M. Montgomery tribute; did you catch it? And has anyone noticed the pattern of names in the Nott family? 


	39. Ch 38: Promise Me That All You Say

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** The Potterverse is not mine and Severus is not mine (more's the pity). I've only elaborated for fun on situations created by J. K. Rowling. An examination of her bank statement and my bank statement would demonstrate conclusively which of us is worth suing and which is most definitely not.

**A/N:** See, this one's out a little sooner! Huge thanks to returning reviewers cecelle, BradyB66, AlanaRose12, lucidity, Darla and TessaCilory. And a big welcome aboard to robochickster and Jenni Lecil. Also, hats off to cecelle for her input on this chapter.

If you haven't read HBP, you should be aware that I've borrowed the name and action of a fairly important spell from that book for this chapter. Not exactly a real spoiler, but not completely a non-spoiler either.

Penhallow (which cecelle and BradyB66 caught) is the name of one of the two families in L. M. Montgomery's _A Tangled Web_ (the other family being the Darks). As the title might suggest, it has bleaker flavor than most of her other books, but I still like it. And cecelle also was right about the source of the Nott names. When I had to come up with a name for Theodore Nott's father, my mind went pretty quickly to the _other_ Roosevelt (whence also comes their daughter's name). The trend having been set...Chester is the name of a former American president, and yes, even Hannibal is the name of a U.S. vice-president (Hannibal Hamlin was Abraham Lincoln's first second-in-command). Yes, I know this story is set in Britain. But hey, the names work, right?

* * *

**Chapter 38: Promise Me That All You Say Is True**

It was difficult to pretend to study, but with the suspicion she had aroused, she couldn't be sure that she wasn't being spied on in some way. So she leafed through her Herbology text, not really taking in anything. She brought out quill, ink and parchment—it was remotely possible that the writing materials in the desk had been spelled to reveal anything that was written with them to an outside observer—and began making notes. She had been over all this material before, and she wrote woodenly, her mind begging _now? now? now?_

When she had enough notes to have something to show for the efforts she was supposed to be making, she pulled out her Astronomy textbook and opened it to the marked page. She had more than half hoped to find the flowers already green, a message already waiting, but her anxious eyes were met by cold blue ink.

Did that mean that he was already on his way? That could be a good thing...if the Notts hadn't turned Notting Chase into a fortress of sorts, expressly to prevent her rescue. The possibility that some of those defenses might be intended to prove fatal was more than a little worrisome. Why wouldn't he have tried to contact her before setting out after her? Had he assumed that she did not have her bag? Or that she would not have the privacy or opportunity to retrieve a message? Or had he forgotten about their secret system, just as she nearly had?

Maybe Katie or Angelina had failed to pass on her message. But even if they had forgotten, Severus would be wondering where she was when she didn't arrive in his room. By now... _Damn!_ She had Astronomy tonight! Severus would not expect her until late. And if he hadn't taken notice of her absence at dinner...

_It's the only chance you have. So get on with it and write it before anything happens to prevent you!_

With shaking hands, she placed the precious bottle of green ink beside the other and unstopped it. Underneath her notes on "Precautions with Fanged Geraniums," she wrote:

_I am a prisoner at Notting Chase. B. L. is here. Respond before you do anything. Too much to tell at once._

Then, attempting to look as though she were merely twiddling her bookmark nervously, she slid it across the green words. They promptly vanished.

_So...that's that._

Strangely, Sarah felt a more desperate sense of hopelessness than she had before. All her thoughts and energy had been focused on gaining the ability to write those few words. Now that they were sent, she realized how little she could do if Severus failed to answer. She would have to decide on her own, without his advice. And if she decided wrong...

She couldn't concentrate on Astronomy, although she ought to be studying it in earnest. Instead, she dug out her Potions book, tucked the bookmark into it, and took it to the bed. Without a wand to supply her needs, she had to light the candle at the bedside from the candelabra on the desk. Frustrated, she curled up among the satin pillows as comfortably as she could manage, and tried to numb her mind with reading things she already knew. With one eye constantly on the bookmark, that was difficult to accomplish. And the stresses of the day were finally telling on her nerves: she caught herself nodding off over her book without having had any idea that she was becoming sleepy.

No, she daren't fall asleep! Too much was at stake. She tried to rally herself and shifted position. She had to stay awake...

_...she tripped, and the bottle of ink was jarred from her hand, falling to the..._

Sarah jolted awake, the book half-fallen from her fingers, the bookmark half-fallen from the book. It took a good ten seconds of confused blinking in the dim candlelight before she realized that the flowers on the bookmark had turned a lovely deep green.

Hastily, she ran the bookmark across the bottom margin of the page.

_Are you in danger?_

Sarah could have wept, if she were not so worried that it would attract attention. It was maddening to move at the slow pace that would make sense if she had just woken up after having fallen asleep over her book and was dragging herself back to the desk to make some more notes. When she sank down in the chair, she was trembling. But she laid the open Potions book on the desk, picked up her quill, and began to write...

Bit by bit, Sarah explained the threats that had been offered, the demands that had been made, the choices that had been placed before her.

_How did Nott manage to kidnap you?_

_Did you not get my message from Angelina?_

_No_.

Sarah felt vaguely betrayed, although she knew how unlikely that message had been to arrive at its destination. She could hardly blame Katie or Angelina for forgetting when even Albus Dumbledore had not been able to remember his own mental notes concerning her.

_But you checked for a note?_ It had been some time since they used their secret message system on a regular basis. The Portkey had obviated much of the need for it, since she could appear in the privacy of his room without detection, regardless of where he might be or who might be in his office.

_It seemed to be one of the few options remaining. When you did not appear at supper, I checked in your workroom, and then with Madam Pomfrey. When you failed to arrive here within a reasonable period after your Astronomy class, it was apparent that something had gone very wrong_.

What time was it? Sarah looked around the room. The delicate porcelain clock on the mantle had such slender hands that it was difficult to read from the least distance, even lighted by the candelabras that stood on each side of it, but by squinting, she gathered that it was after one o'clock.

_I don't know what to do_, she wrote. _And I'm afraid to sleep_.

The return answer was slow in coming. Understandably, it would take a little time for him to decide on the best option. But as the minutes stretched by, Sarah began to worry that he had no best option to suggest. Did he intend, as her uncle had suggested, to abandon her to her fate at this least sign of difficulty to himself in protecting her?

No! That was an unworthy thought. Severus had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep her—he could not possibly give her up so easily.

But...why had he gone to so much trouble to begin with? The motives that her captors had attributed to him, despicable as they were, haunted her. Of course, she had asked him why he insisted on marrying her, and eventually she had been satisfied with the answer. But it had never occurred to her to wonder why he would take the risk he had taken at the very start of their relationship. She had assumed the obvious: he had desired her, had given in to his hormones when his mind had run out of adequate reasons to restrain himself. But as she reconsidered what she knew of her husband, that reasoning seemed far less satisfactory than when it had been a simple, unstudied rationalization...

Unable even to pretend to concentrate on her book, she stood up, trying to turn her mind away from such thoughts to the more immediate and slightly less troubling question of what object or objects in the room might have been enchanted for the purpose of spying on her. One of the portraits, maybe? At least half of them seemed to be of long-dead Nott brides, leaning wearily against their gilt frames, as listless and silent as they had likely been in life. How many of them had begun their sojourns at Notting Chase as prisoners in this room? Sarah had no desire to try to engage any of them in conversation to find out. Nonetheless, she retrieved a candlestick and began pacing around the room, studying the pictures, hoping to determine which, if any of them, was watching her too carefully.

Most of the portrait women were sleeping, and they blinked uneasily when she approached with a light. As she approached the corner where the bookcase stood, however, she discovered that what had seemed, in the daylight, to be paintings of harmless romantic scenes had become lurid depictions of an entirely erotic nature. They were without sound and even without the movement that was typical of magical pictures, but in a way, that was worse. When one expected them to move, the tension of that expectation evoked disturbingly vivid mental images of what was about to occur. It would have been easier, if they were actually animated, to turn from them in disgust, instead of staring in fascinated dismay.

Sarah forced her eyes away, a guilty heat spreading through her body. Tears sprang suddenly to her eyes as she realized that this room was intended, above all else, to resign its occupant to inevitable rape. She strode angrily back to the desk.

An answer, at last.

_McGonagall was just here. I had asked earlier that she check your dormitory. Evidently, her appearance triggered more than one memory. Katie Bell confessed that she had forgotten to pass along your message. Unfortunately, Angelina, in some Gryffindor fit of conscience, had already confessed that you were in the habit of sneaking out to meet your lover_.

The underlining was like a slash across her own conscience.

_She nearly caught me, twice, and I had to tell her something. She thinks it's another student_.

_Can you be sure she thinks so now? And why did you not inform me of these incidents when they occurred?_

Sarah winced. _The first time was a long time ago, right after we began. If I'd told you, you would have put a stop to our relationship. The last time was right after we came back from_...she hesitated, then wrote..._Darkglass Hall. I told a story that convinced her, and I saw no reason to worry you with the matter_.

_It is necessary that I know everything that bears upon our situation_. If they had been speaking in person, she had no doubt he would be shouting at her.

_I hardly know everything that bears on our situation. In fact, I'm quite sure you know more than I, when it comes to that. How much have you kept from me?_ Then, compelled by anger and the lingering fear that her uncle had been right about him: _Come to think of it, I don't even know why you slept with me to begin with_.

A pause before he answered. A pause that harrowed up Sarah's soul.

_I refuse to discuss this under the present circumstances_.

Guilt. Unmistakable guilt.

_Why not?_

_In case it has escaped your notice, we have far more serious problems at present_.

He was right, of course. Somehow that made her angrier. She wanted him to defend himself. To make some reply that would take all her fears away._ Maybe you don't dare to tell me the real reason_.

A slightly longer pause. _I was under the impression that you, of all people, wouldn't turn against me now_.

That was guilt, alright—guilt of her own. The guilt he was _intending_ she should feel. The quill shook in her fingers.

_I just want to know the truth_.

_You know how that's ended before_.

_I have never turned against you, in the end! _So why did the sense of guilt remain? And that niggling horror of suspicion?

_Then is there any answer I could give that would change your mind about what you will next choose to do?_

If it was true, what her uncle and Bellatrix had said...if Severus _had_ used her, entirely as they had accused...would that make her any more inclined to accept the options they had given her? Or would she prefer rescue, even by such a man, to remaining at their mercy?

_No, there isn't_, she confessed. But what about when she was safe again...what would she feel then, if her uncle were proven right?

_Then put the matter aside. It is more important now to decide what is to be done_.

Sarah felt a tear roll down her cheek. Against her better judgment, she scrawled, _Do you love me?_

_No, I'm contemplating risking my life on your behalf because I have nothing better to do with my evening. Now, be still and let me think_.

Sarah was still, or mostly so. She brushed occasionally at the tears that _would_ fall, regardless of her determination to be stoic. She was as bad as Niniane. Was the internal drumming of tiny feet a query after his mother's welfare or an accusation at her weakness?

Evidently, Severus had finished thinking. Sarah drew the bookmark hesitantly across the parchment.

_I think it best to agree to Bella's plans, for the time being_.

_You can't mean me to go through with them?_

_No. But there can scarcely be any better protection than her determination that your pregnancy should remain hidden. She may even be able to convince the Dark Lord that there is no need for him to see you again until she has you better prepared_.

_And when I break my agreement with her?_ Sarah was aghast that Severus could be so cavalier about double-crossing Bellatrix Lestrange. _Both she and my uncle will be furious!_

_Relationships in the Inner Circle seldom remain static for long. A solution will not be required for months—more than adequate time to plan our next move_.

_I'm afraid_.

_As you should be. But what other options have we? It would take a half-dozen Aurors or more to break into Notting Chase, if it is as guarded as you say. And I doubt very much whether I could pull the right strings to set that in motion before your answer is required. Besides, refusing Bella now is as likely to infuriate her as rejecting her later_.

Sarah considered. _I'm not going to tell her until the last possible moment. I'm worried that she will start in on me at once if I agree too soon. And I would rather get what benefit I can from keeping her and my relatives at each other's throats_.

_Excellent. But don't push any of them too far_.

Sarah bit her lip._ I don't know how I can bear it, staying here all weekend_.

_You survived an audience with the Dark Lord_.

Did he mean that to be encouraging? Sarah snorted faintly, in dark humor. _I was there for an hour. And I didn't have to be afraid of_...she paused, unable to write what was in her mind..._certain things_.

_You can hardly fear that your uncle will touch you? Few men are sick or desperate enough take a woman heavy with another man's child_.

_Even out of spite? I'm afraid to sleep. I don't even have my wand_.

_Your aunt appears to be the greater threat, based upon what you've told me. Do not lose perspective_.

How easy that was for him to say, safe inside the walls of Hogwarts!

_What are you going to do?_

_I shall go into Hogsmeade tomorrow and send an appropriately threatening letter to Nott, as he no doubt expects. I shall also send a letter to Lucius, informing him of what Nott has done_.

_He can hardly think that you would seriously expect him to support you? _Sarah was puzzled. _He spoke out against you at the meeting_.

_Nevertheless, he views himself as a friend, of sorts. He would expect me to turn to him, regardless. Indeed, I daresay much of his behavior of late has been due to his resentment that I failed to do so earlier. But the point, which I would have expected you to understand, is to stir up the hornets' nest_.

Oh...of course. _I'm sorry. I'm so tired I can hardly think_.

_Sleep_, he ordered.

_I don't dare_.

_We can't go on writing. If you are being observed, the longer we continue this, the more likely suspicion will be aroused_.

The idea of their communication ceasing, of being once more trapped alone in this horrible room was unbearable. And yet, he was undoubtedly right. But she felt quite desperate.

_How can I sleep, if I'm apt to wake up and find myself being attacked? I don't know how to protect myself like this, without a wand_.

A longer pause, as if he were considering the problem. _You are not helpless, Sarah._ _You did wandless magic, as a child._

_Those were charms with objects, not proper spells. And there's nothing in this room to work with, even to create a protective charm_.

_Wait a moment_.

Sarah, puzzled, did so. After a short while, the flowers changed to green again.

_Technically, wandless magic requires nothing more than a strong will and a focus to substitute for your wand. I've found a spell that may work, should anyone try to harm you. I expect that you will have sufficient will in that case. The spell is Carpe baculum. It will permit you to use another person's wand, even without touching it, as a focus for your own spell. But it must be used non-verbally, and the succeeding spell must be chosen quickly and wisely, because the target can regain control of their wand with absolute ease, merely by re-establishing it as their own focus_.

Sarah jotted the spell down rapidly on another piece of parchment before it disappeared. Even as she did so, the flowers turned green again.

_I advise you to use another non-verbal spell as the follow-up. One that will disable your attacker. I truly hope that I'm correct in assuming Crouch taught you the use of non-verbal spells last year_.

_Yes_.

_Good. Have you a spell in mind?_

Sarah considered. To disable one's opponent in a duel was difficult enough. Usually nothing more was needed than a hex that would distract the person long enough to give one adequate time to cast a well-aimed disarming spell. To disable someone sufficiently to prevent them from using their wand in a counterattack was another matter altogether. And yet that was what was required: there would be no second chance, not without a wand of her own. Unfortunately, two of the more effective spells that she could think of in the situation—_Expelliarmus_ and _Stupefy_—were among those that were most difficult to cast non-verbally. Straightforward spells always were, for some reason, perhaps because they relied on main force. The more subtle the spell, the easier it was to cast without vocalizing it. And subtle, deadly spells were not a usual part of the curriculum at Hogwarts, not even under the Death Eater who had masqueraded all last year as the ex-Auror Moody.

_Not readily, no_, she confessed.

_Then I suggest this one: Sectumsempra. It's a form of slicing hex, as effective as a sword or knife, with enough will to do harm behind it. However, I warn you, if you're squeamish, it will do you no good whatsoever. It is advisable to focus precisely on how you wish to cut. The body contains vulnerable organs, but to kill, aim for the throat. If Nott tries to hurt you...well, I leave that to your imagination_.

She wrote the spell underneath the other, feeling a chill creep up her spine.

To kill.

Was it really possible to do that—to _intend in advance_ to do that—without becoming Bellatrix Lestrange's shadow in the process? But no—if it was a matter of protecting Severian...Sarah let her free hand stray across her stomach...or even protecting herself, it was hardly murder, even if she planned in advance to use deadly force against anyone who tried to attack her. And if Severus was snidely suggesting castration as an appropriate punishment for her uncle...well, she could do that gladly. _Carpe baculum_ indeed!

_Thank you_, she wrote.

_At least you will sleep safer. Which you had best do now. You will hardly be able to survive the weekend unscathed if you are unable to keep your wits about you. Now sleep_.

Sarah smiled faintly, imagining his furrowed brow, his slight frown, his rigidity of frame as he gave her an order he expected to be obeyed.

_Goodnight_, she wrote.

_Goodnight_.

And that was all. It was tempting to add some sentimental drivel. But something held her back. Was it that she would rather not be snubbed if he failed to respond in kind? Or was it the memory of her uncle's accusation, making her doubt if he had ever truly loved her at all?

Wearily, she put away all her things. If, by some chance, she had the opportunity to leave sooner, she did not want to waste time gathering her possessions. She stowed them under the bed, to prevent them from being taken from her easily either. At last (it was past two by the clock), she lay down in the bed without changing her clothes: she would not acknowledge their right to keep her here even that far. And she felt safer as well. Keeping her clothes on would keep her primed to be awake, not asleep. And before she gave in to her exhaustion, she held the two spells in her mind for as long as she could—_Carpe baculum...Sectumsempra...Carpe baculum...Sectumsempra_—until unconsciousness silenced all her unquiet thoughts.

* * *

**A/N: **Readers of HBP will recognize _Sectumsempra_. Even though this story is now AU, I decided that the spell was useful anyway. It has the same source as in HBP. 

_Carpe baculum_ is a nod to my favorite book by Roger Zelazny: _A Night in the Lonesome October_. It's a really funny book—either a tribute to or a parody of the horror genre—and a really perfect read at this time of year, if you can find it. In the book, the canine main character receives the advice "Carpe baculum," which he assumes is merely a feline wisecrack (he interprets it, at first, as "fetch the stick"). The real meaning worked awfully well for this spell.


	40. Ch 39: But We Daren't Refuse

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Ego Harrius Figulus non possideo. Tantum fabulam scribo. Me non nocete!

**A/N:** You know, it gets really hard to vary those disclaimers! Well, Sarah is almost out of this mess (as much as she can be). And we will see Severus again!

I've very pleased to see new reviewers this time—welcome on board to Victoria Sangrecordia and carosu. And my thanks to my faithful review crew: Lady Whitehart, Jenni Lecil, TessaCilory, Darla, BradyB66, enigmalea, AlanaRose12, cecelle, lucidity and NJBearTagger.

Darla: Well, I've had to unpick the scarf I'm knitting three times now—does that count as something I'm not good at?

Now, without further ado...

* * *

**Chapter 39: But We Daren't Refuse...**

Sarah woke because someone was in the room. Her bleary, frightened mind struggled for the words she had gone to sleep with, even as she squinted open her eyes. It was day. Bellatrix Lestrange, her long black hair hanging lankly, was leaning against the near post at the end of the bed, watching her sleep.

_Carpe baculum!_ Sarah thought, jerking herself upright to poise on the edge of the bed. She had no idea if she'd managed to focus on Bella's wand. Even if she had, how could she attack the woman, with her just standing there, offering no threat, her wand not even drawn?

"My, we're jumpy this morning, aren't we?" Bella said snidely, as Sarah tried to slow her breathing.

"You might have been Fiona," Sarah pointed out. _Or Franklin_.

"I've warned Fiona to keep away from you, if she knows what's good for her," Bella said smoothly. "You realize that I'm the only person in this house who will protect your child, don't you?"

"Yes," said Sarah, still watching her visitor—or was 'intruder' still the better word?—warily, "I realize that."

Smiling like a shark, Bella slipped down to sit companionably on the bed next to Sarah. "This baby means a lot to you, I can tell." She slid a pale hand across Sarah's stomach, causing the girl to flinch, but Bella's other hand grasped Sarah's upper arm, hard, preventing her from escaping the woman's touch. The smile had faded, and her voice grew hard. "I gave up everything for our Master. _Fourteen years of my life_. You'll never know what that was like, in Azkaban." Her eyes rolled back in her head for a moment, before she reasserted control of herself. "This time the Dark Lord will succeed. That horrible little Potter boy will die—we'll soon know how. Dumbledore is weakening—he's already lost control of Hogwarts. No one will stand in our way." All the while, Bella caressed the swell of Sarah's abdomen, her face distorted with emotions so diverse that they suggested madness.

"Please don't," Sarah begged, trying to push away the woman's hand, genuinely alarmed at Bella's behavior. She was sorry now that she had not struck while she had the chance.

"I won't hurt him, Sarah," Bella voice grew calmer. "You're sure it's boy? Too bad, really. Then again, that will probably make it easier to give him up."

"You said I could give him to his father!"

"Ah," Bella said, smirking, "and you don't plan to give his father up, is that it?" She had stopped stroking, but she left her hand where it was. Sarah felt a subtle, restless change of position inside her womb.

"You know I don't."

Bella laughed; it was no pleasanter at this close range. "Don't limit yourself, girl. Not when you're so young."

"I thought you wanted to train me in _magic_." There was something disturbingly suggestive in the way Bella was hovering over her. Perhaps that was just her way—perhaps the only way she knew of convincing people, plying women as well as men with the same technique. Nonetheless, Sarah found it troubling to be its object, and she tried again to pull away.

A drumbeat pummeled her from within, off to one side. Then, as if improving in aim, recurred underneath the offending hand.

Bella blinked, and there was a sudden shift in the expression in her eyes. Whether the unexpected motion had truly startled her or had merely given her enough pause to realize that she was pushing Sarah too far, Bella let her go abruptly. She stood up and took several paces away, then turned sharply to face her again. "Do you intend to accept my offer?"

Sarah didn't answer for a moment, although it was because she was still trying to recover her composure, rather than an intentional attempt to put Bella off. "What you're asking requires me to work hard at things I'm not good at. If my uncle will agree to certain of my demands—protecting my child, for instance—then why shouldn't I take the easier path?"

"Do you want our Master to triumph or not!" Bella's eyes blazed.

"Of course I do," Sarah said, placatingly. "But I'm not convinced that I'm the key to that triumph."

"Hardly," Bella scoffed. "Still, it would make a difference."

"I could make a difference helping Severus with potions."

"And I told you no one is going to permit that!"

Sarah did not want to appear as cowed as she felt at those despair-provoking words. Instead, she put on a pout. "Then why I should help any of you? Why not become mistress of Darkglass Hall—_as is my right_—and let the rest of you get your hands dirty?"

"Are you so willing to sleep with your cousin? With your uncle?" Bella's face twisted.

"I thought you wanted me to pursue a little more...variety." Sarah shot the woman a challenging look.

"Well, if that's what you want..." Bella gave a slight shrug, but the tone of her voice made it clear that she was calling Sarah's bluff.

"What I want at the moment," Sarah responded, deciding to take a different tack, "is breakfast. A _safe_ breakfast."

Bella looked at her, puzzlement at the change of subject changing slowly to shrewd contemplation. "I told you I would protect you, if you agree to my offer. But Fiona is rather upset with you, you know."

So, an oblique threat. Sarah returned with one of her own.

"If Fiona manages to harm my child this weekend, I'll remember that you could have prevented it, and didn't."

"Suppose..." Bella began pacing, watching Sarah out of the corner of her eye. "Just suppose..." she trailed off, as if begging for a question, but Sarah did not rise to the bait, forcing Bella to come out with her idea forthrightly. "I daresay what you really want is to go back to school, back into the care of your _teacher_." Bella gave the last word a nasty twist.

"And?" Sarah asked. A sudden stab of hope made it difficult to keep the desperation out of her voice. It could not be that easy...

"If you agree..._now_...then I guarantee you will be back at Hogwarts before nightfall." Bella had turned to face Sarah directly, and there was a triumphant gleam in the woman's eyes.

Sarah's breath seeped out, while she stared at Bella, dazed. She had not meant to give in so quickly, but if Bella could truly manage it...

"What will my uncle say to that?" she asked dubiously.

Bella snorted. "Why would they want you here an instant longer if you agree to our plans? I told you before—keeping a prisoner is dangerous." She looked around the room thoughtfully, then amended, "At least when there are powerful people who might object."

"I want this clear," Sarah said, her voice shaking slightly. "If I agree to your offer, I go home today? You let me alone—and you ensure that everyone else lets me alone—so I can have my baby in private and secret? And then _and only then_, I become your apprentice?"

"I would rather you spent the summer with me," Bella said sourly. "You could learn a great deal, even if you couldn't practice all of it. On the other hand, I no longer have a home of my own to shelter you in, do I? Yet, anyway. But you won't be content, will you, unless you have one last summer with your lowborn lover—for all that you'll be able to enjoy it in that condition," she sneered.

"If you can promise me all that," Sarah said, "I'll agree."

_And how I will get out of it, I do not know_...

"Done!" Bella exulted. "I'll make the arrangements immediately." Then, as if she had heard Sarah's thoughts, she crossed to her and lifted her chin roughly, forcing her to match gazes. "Remember, before you even _think_ of breaking our agreement: I can easily take away _everything_ if you fail me. Nothing you value will be safe—your baby, Severus...I can bring you back to Nott, and I'll stand by and laugh while he has his way with you. So don't even imagine double-crossing me."

Sarah struggled to keep the hatred from her eyes, but however prepared she might be to hide her gentler thoughts with Occlumency, she was not able to take such threats with equanimity. Fortunately, hatred was a useful emotion for hiding other thoughts, and Bella's smirk was evidence that it was not an unexpected reaction. That realization stiffened Sarah's backbone, and she said, between her teeth, "I wouldn't dream of it."

Bella let her go again with another chortle, and stalked toward the door.

"_A safe breakfast_," Sarah insisted, to her back.

She was glad when the door, with the subsequent click and rattle of its many locks, cut off that horrible laughter. But the silence it brought also brought with it an overwhelming wave of distress at what she had just agreed to. She buried her face in her pillow and shook helplessly, surprised at her own visceral reaction.

_No, I don't have time for this_, she chided herself, after the worst had passed. _I need to let Severus know what's happening_.

But it was harder than she thought it would be to regain control of herself. She began to wonder how much more she could stand of things like this. And what all this terror and anguish pulsing through his mother's veins might be doing to Severian.

She had just pulled her book bag from under the bed when there was a soft pop.

"Mistress Black sends Gurgy with safe breakfast." The house-elf held up a silver tray a little doubtfully.

"Thank you, Gurgy," Sarah said. "Please put it on the table. You're sure your mistress hasn't messed with it?" she added anxiously, as the house-elf turned away.

"Oh, no. Mistress Fiona is being too angry. Staying in own room. Throwing things sometimes. Mistress does not be coming near kitchen this morning."

As reassuring as the house-elf meant to be, his worried face was not. But once he had vanished, Sarah put off any decision about eating and pulled her ink, parchment, quill and bookmark out of her bag.

_I may not be able to check for a return message. Bella has promised to return me to Hogwarts today, although of course I had to agree to her demands. You'd better have something dead clever in mind to get me out of this_.

She didn't dare take time for more. With a flick of the bookmark, the message was sent. Sarah replaced everything as quickly as she had retrieved it.

Breakfast?

She circled the little tea table, not unlike a hawk trying to decide if that flicker in the grass _was_ a mouse or not. Bacon, toast, stewed tomatoes, tea. She could go without, although the smell was tormenting her. The question was: did she trust Bellatrix? No, that was not the only question. Did she believe that Bella had succeeded in circumventing anything Fiona might have put in place?

The food was already getting cold, and she didn't have a wand to warm it up again. Finally she nibbled on a piece of toast, as being the least likely object for poisoning. The bacon, too, was irresistible. She left the rest—she trusted the tea least of all, despite her thirst. She would have drunk cold water from the bathroom sink...had there been a bathroom. Unfortunately, the plumbing facilities consisted of a chamberpot (thankfully, self-cleaning), and a pitcher and basin (self-filling and self-emptying). She wouldn't have trusted the water in the pitcher on any account, and she ended up grimacing at the tempting teapot, trying to swallow away the dryness in her mouth and throat. That discomfort made her all the more aware of her rumpled, slept-in clothing. But she was not about to put on anything in the wardrobe. She could wait for a shower and fresh clothes back in her own dorm room.

She didn't dare to write any more, but that did not prevent her from laying her bookmark next to the open pages of her Astronomy text. She had no idea how long it might take Bella to arrange her release—if, indeed, the woman had not overestimated her ability to sway the Notts—and she could not sit fretting for hours. She was going back to Hogwarts, and the N.E.W.T. exams were barely over a week away.

* * *

"Master says Gurgy must bring troublesome girl to luncheon." 

This summons was something of a relief. Much to Sarah's surprise, Bella had not returned. She felt a little put out over it—not because she desired Bella's company, but because the expectation of interruption at any moment had prevented her from replying to the message Severus had sent partway through the morning.

_I shall await your return_.

If he had been in the room, she would have thrown something at him.

Sarah was bracing herself to deal again with her aunt, but there were only three places set at the table. Franklin and Bellatrix were already seated, glaring at one another. As Sarah came in, her uncle rose and pulled out her chair.

"We're having a little trouble coming to an agreement," said Bella.

Franklin huffed as he seated himself again. As if taking that for a cue, the food appeared on their plates. Bella automatically reached across the table and exchanged Sarah's plate for Franklin's, her own glass of pumpkin juice for Sarah's.

"This is becoming rather tiresome, Bellatrix. All I want is assurance that Sarah will fulfill her part of the bargain."  
"What's that?" Sarah said, snatching up her glass. She downed half the contents in one swig.

"You will marry Hannibal in October."

"And I tell you again," Bella snapped, "the girl is useful for more than breeding."

"If she wishes to waste her time after the wedding on you, she may do so, as far as I'm concerned. But I want the matter settled. I won't wait to gain some benefit from this situation."

Sarah flinched, but the comment was not followed by the leer she expected. Franklin didn't take his eyes off Bella. "I know you—you've always been a backstabber. And if you've promised her that you will prevent her ever having to marry my son, you can both forget that right now."

"Naturally not," Bella laughed, unconvincingly. "But what is to prevent you from stabbing _me_ in the back, if I give you that much control over her?"

"You'll simply have to take my word for it," Franklin said. He allowed the hint of a smug smile to show. "Otherwise she stays here until the time comes."

"I take your word for nothing!" Bella spat. "And I don't believe you're prepared to keep her here for that long, not when it means having to keep control of Fiona as well. And don't forget that certain _outside pressures_ may be brought to bear, sooner or later. Take what you can get, while you can get it."

"I will have Sarah married to Hannibal by Halloween, _one way or another_," Franklin snarled.

Watching the two of them at loggerheads, Sarah felt that she was truly caught...between a dementor and a boggart, as the saying went. Undoubtedly, one or the other would yield something, eventually. But having been promised her freedom, Sarah was unwilling to sit by while these two quibbled over the details.

"Suppose I agree?"

Her uncle and Bella turned to look at her, both as open-mouthed as fish.

Franklin recovered first. "There, you see—_she_ can be reasonable."

"Oh, I do have some demands, Uncle," Sarah said. "First, the wedding will take place at the Ministry of Magic. You will bring Hannibal; Bellatrix's representative will bring me. We will part the same way as soon as the ceremony is over. And when the Dark Lord has triumphed—and _only_ then—I will take my place as mistress of Darkglass Hall. That meets your demands, does it not?"

Franklin Nott's face went through several kinds of flustered while she spoke, before it settled on a sourness that might be resignation. "Don't even imagine trying to escape your vows, when this is over, my dear niece. You would most earnestly regret it."

"Does that suit you, then?" Bella asked, studying Sarah uncertainly out of the corner of her eye.

"I suppose it will have to," Franklin said. "But you had better be there. The thirtieth of October. Ten o'clock in the morning."

"Agreed," Bella said.

An uncomfortable silence fell, as they resumed eating. Franklin was attacking his food as if he would like to attack Bella in the same way.

"I don't trust you, you know," he said, after a time.

"Of course not," Bella agreed almost amicably.

_And that's why you'll fail_, Sarah allowed herself the luxury of the thought, as she stared determinedly at her plate. _None of you can trust each other_.

_Are the rest of us much better off, though? With the Ministry fighting against Dumbledore?_

"I hold you responsible for seeing that Sarah does what she's agreed to do."

"Naturally," Bella said, apparently unconcerned. She took another bite.

"I hope you haven't forgotten, as you sponge comfortably off the rest of us, that you are a wanted criminal." The smug look had crept back onto Franklin's face. "It would only take the right word to the wrong person to put you back in Azkaban."

Bella dropped her fork, her face contorting with rage. And, Sarah thought, fear. "You wouldn't dare! Our Master went to a great deal of effort to free us, his most _loyal_ servants. He would not be pleased—"

"No, I imagine not. Therefore, you'd better not displease him, Bellatrix. Even favorites can fall."

"I'll take you down with me!" she threatened.

"I was cleared years ago. Why should the Wizengamot believe you now?"

"The Dark Lord will know—"

"Give me some credit, Bellatrix. I wouldn't permit myself to be connected with your capture. And threats...well, threats are just threats, are they not?"

Bella snatched up a plate and threw it. It went through one of the windows looking out on the complex knot garden. Sarah flinched at the shattering of glass.

"Really, I'm beginning to think that Sarah is a less difficult guest than you are." Franklin barely even glanced at the broken window. "If you keep your agreement, and make sure Sarah keeps hers, there's really nothing to get upset about. Is there, Sarah?"

Sarah decided the wisest course was to keep her mouth shut. She concentrated again on her food, although she had lost any desire to finish eating.

"I want brooms ready at the front gate at two o'clock," Bella said coldly. "And everything else we discussed."

"Yes, of course." Franklin set aside his silverware, dabbed his face with his napkin, and drew his wand. "_Fenstrum reparo!_"

As the window came back together, Bella wore an expression sour enough to curdle unicorn's milk. Franklin, seeming to ignore her, went to inspect the restored glass.

"Pity," he said, "still a bit...cracked." He shot a look over his shoulder at Bella that sent the woman storming out of the room.

"Are you sure you want to be under her tutelage?" he asked, in the same hard-edged, casual tone.

Sarah stood up. "I prefer it to yours," she said simply, and walked out of the room. She half-feared being seized from behind, but no steps followed her: he let her go.

She was still trying to catch her breath when Gurgy appeared at her side. He had difficulty keeping up with her.

"I'm leaving this place," Sarah said, when they reached her door. "Ask your master. I want the things that were taken from me."

The house-elf's face scrunched into an expression of alarm, but he whispered, "Gurgy asks."

"Thank you," Sarah muttered, knowing she did not sound as if she meant it.

* * *

As it turned out, her thanks were without merit. Gurgy did not return. It was Bella who arrived, nearly an hour later, still in high dudgeon. 

"Be careful about what you reveal, and to whom," Bella said, stalking toward her, pulling out Sarah's illusion belt and fastening it, without a by-your-leave, around the girl's waist...or what now passed for her waist.

"My wand?" Sarah asked.

"When we reach our destination. I hope that your flying skills are better than your Apparition skills."

"My flying skills are just fine," Sarah replied. Admittedly, she got very little practice anymore. Portia did not care for flying, and Sarah's broom had long since been relegated to a closet. But one never really forgot how.

The brooms that her uncle supplied them with were a good deal nicer than Sarah's old Comet. When she climbed astride, after hooking her bag over the end of the handle, she found the cushioning charm quite comfortable. She even got a bit of amusement out of watching Bella mount in the old-fashioned sidesaddle manner, although she suppressed her grin quickly at the angry woman's sharp look. Sarah held her breath as Bella pulled out her wand to cast a Disillusionment Charm on her. Once Bella had Disillusioned herself, they took off into the sky.

The day had been bright when Sarah awoke, but now clouds were gathering. In a sense, that was good thing, since it would help to keep them hidden from observation: a Disillusionment Charm merely used the color of the nearest surroundings to create camouflage; it would be hard-pressed to create complete invisibility against a bright blue sky. Still, in another sense, that was a bad thing. Sarah would have been just as happy to see a squad of Aurors come swooping down to arrest her Death Eater companion. But the potential ramifications—the suspicion of the Dark Lord, or the chance that Bella would try to use her as a hostage or a shield—made it less than truly desirable.

It had been a long time since Sarah had felt the wind on her face like this, and the sense of absolute freedom that came with being aloft. It was almost possible to forget, for a moment, that she was still a prisoner. _Not for much longer_. And when she was free again...well, she would have her own broom back, even if she had to sneak into her aunt's and steal it. No more of this uncomfortable Portkey business. Or at least no more than necessary, she thought, realizing just how long it would take to fly to London on a broomstick.

It was long enough, just to Hogwarts, that Sarah was perilously weary by the time they arrived. It was past supper and nearing sunset, and having not eaten much all day, she felt weak from hunger. As soon as the castle came into view, Bella signaled her down to just above tree level, presumably to attract less attention—or to present less of a target—to the Wizarding population living below. They landed in a grove of trees not far distant from the main gate.

Sarah dismounted, wondering if she had the energy to walk up the castle, or whether she should use the broom again (assuming Bella didn't confiscate it). She turned to the older witch. "I want my wand back."

"All in good time," Bella responded, still balancing lightly on her hovering broom. Casually, she lifted the Disillusionment Charm on Sarah, and watched as the girl came back into full and vulnerable visibility. "First I want to remind you what will happen if you fail to keep your promise to me. I know what it is to be hunted, and I am the most ruthless of hunters, if I have a wrong to avenge. You know what I did to those Aurors, the Longbottoms? That will seem merciful compared to what I do to your lover and your child if you betray me."

Obviously Bella expected her evil deeds to be well known, but Sarah had only the vaguest of ideas what she was talking about, based on barely-skimmed articles in the paper at the time of the Death Eaters' escape from Azkaban. Clearly, however, Bella meant it as a horrible threat, and it might well be.

"Up to your old tricks, Bellatrix?" came a familiar voice from among the trees.

The woman whipped around, swinging her broom down to interpose herself between her prisoner and the black-clad man who stood at the edge of the clearing. "Do you want a sample now, Snape?"

"I suppose the screaming would attract a certain degree of attention," Severus said, in his most perilously smooth voice. "I seem to recall that you always liked attention, Bellatrix."

"Shut up, Snape!" she ordered. "This matter is between me and Sarah Darkglass. You couldn't interfere if you tried, and I advise you not to try."

"I understand our agreement, Bellatrix," Sarah said quickly. "Give me my wand and leave, before the presence of _any_ of us here attracts unwanted attention. Don't forget what the Dark Lord said about preserving our position here!"

"Fine, protect your precious _teacher_ a while longer. But don't forget that you'll soon have a new schoolmistress. I'll be in contact with you again, just to keep things...certain." With that, Bella tossed Sarah's wand to the ground. She had kicked off and was at treetop level before Sarah could even locate her wand in the deepening dusk.

* * *

**A/N:** So, Sarah is back at Hogwarts. I hope you're all happy now? Hold that thought. 


	41. Ch 40: You Deceived Me

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all that's connected with him belong to J. K. Rowling and those to whom she's sold certain rights. I, however, am not one of those. I'm just doing this for fun. No matter how badly I torture her characters...it's probably not as badly as she plans to.

**A/N:** I'm sorry this chapter took so long to get up. It's been ready for a long time, but I've made a practice of waiting untila chapter is uploaded at Occlumency before I post it here, and the queues at Occlumency have gotten really slow recently. Hopefully the next one will be faster.

I know that many of you were expecting lemons. I regret to say that there are no lemons in this chapter. Please do not despair—I predict lemons in the future. But, as in life, sometimes our emotions interfere with what we really want.

I've been overwhelmed by the praise over the last chapter, especially from new readers. Thank you to klementari, tall oaks, Becca, Samantha-Ives, BradyB66, Darla, TessaCilory, AlanaRose12, orangeishy, Kerry Bo Berry, lucidity, Aiden2, Jenny Lecil, Owlbait and cecelle! And an extra special big thanks to cecelle for helping me prevent this chapter (I hope) from riding off the cliff of melodrama.

Darla: Yes and yes. Although the latter is currently stalled. Maybe I'll have that scarf done by _next_ winter. sighs

Snape is back in the story. Is this a good thing? (Well, it is for TessaCilory!) **Language warning!**

* * *

**Chapter 40: You Deceived Me**

"_Why didn't you kill her while you had the chance!_" Sarah demanded. Part of her—the part that was exhausted and desperate for his touch—was telling her to shut up and run into his arms. She was not listening to that part. Even though Severus _had_ been awaiting her arrival more substantially than she had supposed he would, after his note.

"Quite apart from the fact that it would attraction attention we don't want, I'm sure you can imagine the Dark Lord's reaction if tomorrow's _Prophet_ reported that his much-beloved, ever-loyal Bella had been brought down by me." His expression was hidden in the dim light, but his voice was a growl. "Would you care to stand before him and explain that?"

"You've explained worse, I expect." Sarah did not want to back down now.

"Then consider what your uncle would do, as soon as he realized that his agreements had become null and void. At present, very few people know of your condition. It is in Bellatrix's interest to keep that secret. Nott's primary interest in doing so is to satisfy her. Her death is a luxury we cannot yet afford."

Sarah let out a breath, half sigh, half-sob. Every line of her body slackened into despair and defeat, the heat of her anger smoldering down into embers. Then Severus was there, his arms around her.

"We also cannot afford being seen here. Come inside the gate, and we'll return to the castle."

There was no moon, and because of the clouds, no stars either, but he urged her on through the deepening dusk until the gates of Hogwarts loomed up out of the dark. They slipped inside, and Severus began fumbling for her ring. What a useless symbol _that_ had been in her ordeal! she thought, trying to help him, their efforts more of a weary tussle than a cooperative effort. She expected him to snap at her. He did not, but she remained tensed against the possibility as he fitted the silver ring on her finger and turned it three times.

* * *

When she sank to her knees on the bed, Sarah felt as if all the terror she had been carefully controlling for the past day—could it really only be slightly over a day?—was rising up to overwhelm her. But the embers of her anger were there, too, and she had wept so often in Severus's arms, she was as tired of it as he must be. 

He had left her to fend for herself. The fact that it was the sensible thing to do—that he could have lost his life trying to rescue her—did not mitigate the feeling that he had failed her badly. Even the touch of his hands, steadying her, could not do that.

Knowing even as she said it that it was irrational, she asked plaintively, "Why did you let them take me?"

"I never supposed you to be at risk inside Hogwarts, Sarah. If I had believed for moment—"

"You should have known—you're supposed to know all of this spying-for-the-Dark-Lord business!" she cut him off, frustrated at the unaccustomed composure of his tone.

"I could as easily ask why you went with your uncle," his voice tightened. "Presumably you could have screamed—"

"Umbridge was there, at first. She believed his story. She would have blamed me, not him, for anything I did," Sarah protested. "And then he threatened to use the Imperius Curse."

_You could have screamed before he got off the spell, though, couldn't you?_

_I didn't...it didn't seem like it at the time_...

Resentment at the suggestion of her own guilt, her own failure in the incident, was winding her guts up in a painful knot, and she lashed out. "You should have realized before that they wouldn't let me alone! And it's because of _you!_"

"What are you talking about?" Severus asked sharply, holding her tighter by the shoulders, frowning as he studied her face.

"I'm talking about who _I_ am, and who _you_ are." It was a vague enough statement, at face value, but he must have understood her meaning. He blinked, as if she had struck him, and then his eyes went hard, his expression bitter. He let her go and stepped down onto the floor, turning away from her.

"I never thought," he said, "that such things mattered to you."

"Funny," she said, angrily. "I never thought they mattered to you _either_."

He swung his head around to stare, almost puzzled, at her over his hunched shoulder. Then his eyes smoldered in sudden understanding. "So, that's what this is about: the poison they've poured in your ears. Surely you knew they were attempting to turn you against me, and yet it appears that they have succeeded."

The bitterness in his voice hurt her, but it was just another drop in the great ocean of resentment that was welling up inside her soul. "I have never been disloyal to you! Even when I went home for Christmas and I thought it was over between us, all I could think of was you. Even when you told me the things you'd done, and I wanted to run away, I _couldn't do it!_"

"Then why should it matter what they said to you about me?" Severus asked, thoroughly exasperated.

"I don't know." Sarah breathed hard, trying to hold back her tears. "It just _does_." She sank into a huddled sitting position. "I thought..." a gasp, "I thought you wanted _me_, at least."

"What do you mean?" His eyes narrowed. "Of course I wanted you."

"For _myself?_" She sniffed. "I thought, when you told me that you didn't do it to gain points with the Dark Lord, because of who my father was, you were telling the truth. Because you _didn't_ know that my father had been a Death Eater, not until I told you. But it never occurred to me before that you _did_ know my name, right along, and what _that_ meant." She could tell, by his expression, that she had struck a nerve. "That's the truth, isn't it?"

"Do you really suppose the truth is that simple?" he said cuttingly. "As clever at twisting the truth to your own ends as you are, Sarah, I thought you understood how very complex the truth can be." There was something in how he looked at her as he said this that made her feel every lack of her eighteen years, in comparison to his thirty-some-odd. Forty-some-odd? She really didn't know, she realized. It was never something she had allowed to matter very much before—that he was grown man and she was a girl. She had never seen their seduction of each other for what it must appear to everyone else: a teacher preying upon the innocence of a student.

_I was **not** innocent_, she told herself.

_Certainly he was not_.

"I want to know why you decided to..." she hesitated slightly, unsure how to describe it.

"To fuck one of my students?" His face twisted in sarcasm, but it was the harsh word that hurt more.

"Was that all it was to you?" she asked, picking up his bitterness where he had left it.

"Come now, Sarah," he chided brutally. "Don't tell me you were looking for _love_, that night. If I'd seen any hint of that, you'd have marched out that door as quickly as you came in."

"What have _my_ reasons to do with _yours?_"

"I wouldn't want you to pretend to yourself that you had a _nobler_ purpose than I."

It took an instant for that jab to hit home, as weary as she was. She reacted sharply. "_Tell me why!_"

She expected another angry reaction in turn, but instead he looked away from her, his expression curiously pained.

"I don't want to discuss this now, Sarah. You've had a terrible experience, and it's clouded your thinking."

"So, I'm just a hysterical girl!" At the moment, that might be all too true—a fact which merely made her angrier.

"Yes, as a matter of fact!" he retorted, then shook his head. "Sarah, there will be a better time to discuss this, when we are both rested..."

Sarah, feeling that her slumped position on the bed put her at a disadvantage, got to her feet. Her abdomen twinged in protest at the motion. "How am I supposed to rest in the middle of an argument! After you've said such things to me?"

He appeared at a loss for a response. His brows were knit in his characteristic fury, but his mouth could not seem to decide whether to agree with his eyebrows or with the intermittent effort he had been making to attain something resembling calm and reason.

"You could not possibly understand what it was like," he spat out at last. "A half-blood Knockturn bastard in a House full of pureblood toffs and their footmen." He could not, after all this time, shed the careful pronunciation he must have painstakingly practiced at school, but he spoke the last few words with a forced trace of the accent he must have had as a child.

Sarah dared not speak—the air was far, far too brittle for that.

Severus went on, his eyes looking anywhere except at her. "Lucius kept the bastard part to himself. It was too useful a weapon to hang over my head. Too useful to have a member of the serving classes at his beck and call, one born even lower than his usual lackeys," his mouth twisted in disdain.

"But then I made myself too useful to be treated like a slave—I knew more dark spells than any of them. I was clever enough to make up spells of my own. Unfortunately, I was not clever enough to realize, at first, that the increase in my status was merely an illusion."

He shook his head, his lank hair appearing even lanker with the motion. "I was, of course, disabused of that notion. But by then, there were other opportunities—the Dark Lord was rising in power, and in spite of his supporters' pureblood rhetoric, it was soon clear to me that he was more interested in power and ambition. Which I had."

Sarah watched his expression as he spoke, watched it reflect anger, shame, triumph. It seemed more remarkable than ever that he had chosen to go to Dumbledore, to leave behind whatever promises of status that the Dark Lord had given him.

His eyes rested on her at last, burning with fervency. "Growing up, I clung to one thing—whoever my father was, he was something more than a Snape, something more than Knockturn Alley. I wanted that—whatever it was he'd had—more than anything on earth. Can you understand that?"

Sarah nodded uneasily. Such a man as Severus was, doomed by fate to be nothing in the eyes of the world.

"Albus Dumbledore offered me...as much as I had any right to expect." He looked away from her again, staring into the fireplace, straightening his shoulders as if a rod had been thrust down his back. "A professor at Hogwarts. Teaching Potions to young idiots."

"You wanted more than that," Sarah murmured. Sympathy was gnawing away her anger. But her insides were still so wound up...

He glared at her as if it had been a question. "Damned ungrateful, isn't it? I would prefer teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Although perhaps that's only been another illusion of happiness, a bubble that would pop if it ever really occurred." He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes, then let his fingers slide partway back through his hair, pressing with visible force against his skull.

She had suspected before that he hated teaching. Now she understood why he didn't just stop. To be a professor at Hogwarts was—as Miriam had once said—a higher position than any other he might hope to attain. And to be Head of House, over the scions of all those old families... Why did he protect them, when he might have abused them at will? But the answer came almost as quickly as she had thought of the question—he was afraid of their parents, afraid of the backlash that might result if his origins were made an issue, afraid of losing control of his little nest of vipers. Better to be the head bully in a House of bullies than a victim. Although that thought banished some of her sympathy. No wonder he seemed, at times, as childish as his students.

"It ought to have been enough—I tried to convince myself that it was enough—but it wasn't," Severus growled. "I was reminded too often of that immeasurable, untreadable step above me. Three years ago, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, Lucius offered to convince the Board of Governors to appoint me headmaster. Such a _magnanimous_ proposal for his old friend! Yet it was clear—whatever prestige I gained in the position, I would still remain what he had always seen me as: his minion, his appendage, his servant."

There was a fierceness in his face that was frightening, as he turned back to her. "And you—so prettily unconscious of your class, and with no knowledge of mine. So..._willing_." His eyes were as hungry as they had been that night. "How could I resist taking such a forbidden treasure, when it came within my grasp?"

Sarah's eyes widened, her heart convulsing in shame and pain. It was as bad as she had feared. No—worse. At least she had seen him as a _person_, had intended their relationship to be of mutual benefit! She had merely been an _object_ to him—a way of gaining a profoundly intimate revenge against Lucius and his high-born friends.

"So that really _is_ all that mattered to you? That I was a high and mighty _Darkglass?_ That you could say bugger-all to Lucius and the whole lot by sleeping with me?"

"You think that's all that was in my mind?" Severus sneered, stepping toward her, catching her by the shoulders, holding her far too close. "I confess, it tipped the scales. But do you want to me to deny that I was perilously attracted—"

"My uncle was right!" she cut him off. "You could have made me get rid of the child, but you didn't. Because your son would be half a Darkglass."

"Sarah—" he began, warningly, but she wouldn't have it.

"How could you _use_ me like that?" His grip had become, in her mind, all too much like that of her captors, and she tried to shake it off.

His expression hardened again. "I warned you that you were being used, Sarah."

"Not like that!" she gasped. "I didn't know you meant like that!"

"I can hardly help what you choose not to see," he said brutally. "I supposed, when I took you to Knockturn Alley, you would realize then that you were too far above me. Apparently you were blinded by infatuation—"

"I don't give a _damn_ whether you were born in Knockturn Alley or on the far side of the moon!" Sarah shrieked. Finally she pulled free of him, but she didn't step away, not yet. She was too angry. "But I won't be used as your... your _step-ladder!_" She swung away from him, then, seeking how best to stalk out. The classroom? She didn't care whether a dozen Slytherins saw her. _Let_ dear Professor Snape get fired. But no—with N.E.W.T.s coming up...goodness knew she was going to need those credentials even more, now. Her ring? Angelina already knew she had a Portkey. But what if Patricia were there? Besides, she had not the least desire to ever put it on her finger again. The back stairs, then. She had certainly snuck up and down them plenty of times before. Little fool that she had been!

He brushed angrily past her as she turned toward the portrait door. "Naturally you'd choose to believe that of me..." he said, his voice dripping sarcasm like a razor dripping blood. He snatched his cloak from where he had let it fall on the bed and threw it around himself. He glared at her more hatefully than she had ever seen him glare at anyone. "Gods, what a fool I was!" He grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the mantle, stepped into the fire and disappeared.

* * *

Sarah was too stunned to scream curses after him, and by the time she thought to do so, it would have been a pointless waste of breath. But just because Severus had left didn't mean she was going to stay here. Not in his room. 

He had trust—..._given_ her the passwords to his wards, after they came back from Knockturn Alley. She used them now to leave through the portrait door. The painting itself was as grim as ever, but now it seemed more like a warning she had failed to heed. She gritted her teeth as she slipped along toward the stairs.

Once she had managed to get out into the first floor corridor, there was no more need for secrecy. It was still before curfew, and a few students were roaming the halls with their friends. Sarah, however, wanted the relative safety of her room, and it was there she went, as quickly as she could manage. No one paid her any mind as she passed through the common room. The usual clamor was missing: nearly everyone was studying now, either for O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s or for end of year examinations.

By the time she had climbed to her dorm room, she was finding it difficult to hold in the misery that had been twisting tighter and tighter in her soul as she left the Potion master's chambers further and further behind. What was she going to do? She was more alone now than she had ever been in her life...and that was saying something. But she could hardly go back to Aunt Portia after this. And—a horrible realization—Bellatrix was expecting Sarah to becoming her doting pupil by October, at latest. Dumbledore was out of reach, and how could Professor McGonagall solve any of this, with Umbridge breathing down her neck?

Did this mean she would have to go through with Bella's horrible plan? That would take her away from Severus, at least. But what about Severian? Could she bear to give him that name, after all? She would _not_ give him to his father—not to be used as yet another pawn in his little status game. But to whom else could she entrust him? Who would take care of her, now, when he was born? She couldn't go back to Knockturn Alley, to his family, not like this...

She had considered and discarded a half dozen unacceptable scenarios by the time she reached her own bed. The only chance seemed to be flight...away from Britain. But she had no money, no job, no friends, no place to go or nor any way of getting there.

"Sarah?" Angelina, busy studying a Transfigurations text, had just noticed her arrival in their dorm room. But the anxiety in the girl's voice could not penetrate Sarah's grief. She climbed onto her bed, pulled a pillow to her, and curled around it, sobbing painfully.

Angelina was clearly distressed. "I'm so sorry, Sarah! Please forgive me! I wouldn't have told on you, truly. But McGonagall was so _worried_." Sarah barely felt the plop of the other girl sitting on the edge of the bed; she could not have stopped crying if she had wanted to. "She woke us up in the middle of the night, and she was actually _scared_. I've never seen her like that. And when she said she had reason to believe you might be in danger...well, I thought it would be better for you to be in trouble than to be dead."

"She was odd about it," said another voice—Alicia's. Sarah wondered fleetingly how many people had heard what Angelina told McGonagall, and how big a sensation it had caused—it only made her cry harder. Alicia went on, "She didn't even ask us where you went. Not that we knew. Angelina didn't, I mean. She just kept harping on the last time and place we'd seen you. If we'd seen anyone unusual around."

"She didn't even ask the name of your boyfriend," Angelina picked up the thread again, still upset. "Which I couldn't have told her anyway. But it was like she already knew. It wasn't until Katie came in and told about you going to your uncle's that she...she didn't calm down exactly."

"Just got sort of grim, and left," Alicia put in.

"I was scared for you, Sarah," Angelina said, still sounding remorseful. "I knew your boyfriend was a Slytherin and...well...you know what Slytherins are like—I was worried."

_What Slytherins were like indeed!_

"_Please_ don't hate me, Sarah. What _has_ happened? Did your family find out about your boyfriend? Did _his_ family find out about you?"

If only it had been that easy!

"I...they...sort of...did," Sarah gasped out between sobs. "I don't hate you," she managed in one breath. Although it was upsetting that Angelina had broke her word, Sarah believed she might well have done the same, under the circumstances. "He...he and I...had...a fight." Her words ended on note of agony as the keenness of her grief overwhelmed her again.

"Oh dear," Angelina said, reaching out to stroke her back.

"Good riddance to Slytherin rubbish," Alicia said, without much sympathy.

"Alicia!" Angelina protested.

"She ought to have known what they're like. She's practically one herself."

When that produced a sharper moan from Sarah, Angelina said indignantly, "She was sorted in Gryffindor, same as us." But from the few sounds Sarah could hear over her own sobbing, Alicia had gone back to her own bed and her own books.

"What can I do, Sarah?" Angelina said. "I'll do anything to make this up to you. You're not getting expelled are you?" she added abruptly.

Sarah shook her head against the bed. One small thing to be grateful for. She would have had to find a solution to her insoluble problems that much sooner. But oh, McGonagall was likely to be angry as well, and Sarah couldn't bear the thought of her Head of House shouting at her again, blaming her...

"McGonagall can't exactly give you much detention at this point, can she?" Angelina sounded forcedly cheerful.

Sarah shook her head again. _Three more weeks at Hogwarts, and then what?_

Angelina said nothing for a minute or so, then finally asked, "Do you want me to cheer you up, or do you just want to cry it out?"

Sarah snuffled. "Just...cry..."

It was only when Angelina took her hand away and went back to her own bed that Sarah realized how reassuring it had felt.

The sobs kept coming, more one moment, less another, ebbing and flowing with the misery of her thoughts. He didn't love her..._that_ was at the terrible core of it all. She had never been anything more than a tool to increase his status. The child, who moved uneasily at times within her as she wept—the child was just another symbol of what he wanted that he could never have. Not even by marrying the last of Darkglass line.

She would have _given_ him that, she realized. She would have married him in the eyes of all the world and made him master of Darkglass Hall, to sit at its mistress's side, if she'd had the power to do so. Out of _love_. She loved Darkglass Hall because it was her home, not because it meant she was someone better than common. Why had it never occurred to her to think it might mean something very different to a man who had been born with nothing, not even a father's name?

The most horrible thing was imagining his eyes, as they had been that night. She had never dreamed that the triumph in his eyes had been for his victory against Malfoy and company. That he had been using her body, so willing and unaware, to punish _them_. It made her almost physically ill to think of it, her sobs edging on heaves.

"Can't somebody shut her up?" yelled Florence Moran, from the fourth bed over.

"Don't put a Silencing Charm on her," Angelina protested.

Sarah braced herself, as someone came over, but whoever it was didn't touch her. It sounded as if the curtains of her bed were being closed, and she glanced up in time to see Alicia flick the last set together. She heard Alicia's muffled spell... "_Imperturbus!_" Then silence.

Sarah felt a stab of panic, which superceded her other distress for the moment. She was trapped. Probably that hadn't occurred to Alicia, but that was the result. Her hand could not even touch the bed curtains, held back by the force of the spell.

She wept again, this time as much for the cruelty of the world at large as for Severus'. That was how the world was, it seemed: cruel and uncaring. The rise of the Dark Lord was just another symptom of that fact. But even after his earlier fall, the unkindness of the world had gone on, just as it had done for...forever, probably. It was manifested in her parents' cruelty to one another—a cruelty that had, in the end, left her sheltered a little from the world's hatred only because it had kept the world from noticing her. And Aunt Portia's cruelty in rejecting her was just another bit of evidence that even the usually good and kind were not immune to being brutal. No, even the great Albus Dumbledore was not immune to that, forcing her to marry a man he ought to have sacked, knowing that sooner or later she would have to face an enemy who would delight in killing her as slowly and painfully as possible, should he doubt her loyalty...

Her thoughts raged on and on in this vein. Every little wrong that had been done to her in her life was picked out as part of the whole horrible pattern. It was an ugly thing. An ugly world. How could she have been such a fool as to want to bring another defenseless child into it?

Sleep came, finally, at unawares. It silenced her thoughts, but it could not silence the misery in her soul.

* * *

**A/N:** So much for Severus having learned to tell Sarah the truth! But she's been having a rough time of it, on top of being pregnant. Clearer heads will get some input in the next chapter. Stand by for the return of Miriam! 


	42. Ch 41 Not For Any Mortal Sin

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** All the Harry Potter stuff you recognize belongs to J. K. Rowling. Anything you don't may have been invented by me. Any questions?

**A/N:** The good news is that I am now caught up to being two chapters ahead again. The bad news is that this breach between Severus and Sarah is still going to take some time to fix.

Huge thank you's to Darla, cecelle, BradyB66, AlanaRose12, TessaCilory, Aiden2, Jessie, lucidity, Jenni Lecil, Samantha-Ives and tall oaks for your reviews! And special thanks again to cecelle for looking at an earlier version of this chapter.

All of my chapters have "working titles" before I assign them an official _Phantom of the Opera_ title, just to help me keep track of the basic planned content of the chapter. The working title for this chapter was "Wallowing." Just so you know in advance. ;) Yes, you can be annoyed at Sarah. She deserves it. (By the way, the title of this chapter is meant to be an ironic reference to the fact that Sarah has, indeed, forgiven him for far worse things than she's censuring him for now.)

* * *

**Chapter 41: Not For Any Mortal Sin**

Sarah woke with misery still clenched tightly around her heart. She had not, surprisingly, dreamed of anything. Perhaps she had been too exhausted. She felt exhausted yet. And her sleeping mind had found no answers for her situation.

Either the Imperturbable Charm had worn off or someone had got worried about her and lifted it to check on her—in her current state of mind, it was difficult to believe the latter—and she was able to draw her bed curtains aside. It was early, and the sky was still grey, although with dawn or bad weather, it was hard to say. No one else seemed to be stirring.

Sarah slipped out of the clothes she had worn (and slept in) for the past two days, but she felt far too miserable to shower. She mumbled a spell to take the edge off any bodily odors and put on her best weekend robes. She needed...answers? She could hardly expect _help_. Absolution for her foolish wickedness? Something, at any rate.

Most people slept in on Sundays, so the halls of the castle were nearly deserted as she made her way downstairs to the little chapel. It was—so far as she had ever been able to tell—in a different part of the dungeons than the classrooms or the kitchens. The stairs, in fact, went only to the little candlelit chamber and nowhere else.

Not many students were there, and none of the teachers. The old wizard chaplain, who came up from Hogsmeade every Sunday, didn't seem to be bothered by the small attendance. It was, apparently, simply a duty he carried out for the benefit of his own soul.

Sarah had seldom come herself. The service was Anglican, of course. And although she had joined in the usual Christmas and Easter church-going of her mother's nominally Anglican family, her father had raised her—perhaps a tad more than nominally—in his own family's customary faith.

As she slipped into a rear pew, she reflected morosely on that. Why had her father crossed religious and political lines to marry a woman with whom he was doomed to quarrel? Could he have truly loved Julia once? Surely she must have loved him...until she learned that he was even more devoted to the cause of the Dark Lord.

At least her father had not crossed the line Sarah had, she thought, frowning. Of course, the Plattuses were below the Darkglasses. But then, everyone was, according to Fiona. The Blacks contested that supremacy, of course. And there were a dozen families who might have done so, but did not care to make the effort. At least the Plattuses were gentlefolk, even if their wealth was tied up in the insecurity of business ventures instead of the age-old solidity of land. In fact, the only people in her connection who spoke of being better than the rest of the Wizarding world were the ones whom Sarah despised.

Her father had told her, more than once, that it wouldn't do to become complacent with one's place in the world. _Salazar Slytherin was once the greatest wizard in the world—and do you know what happened to his descendents, Sarah? They died in poverty and misery. The Dark Lord rose out of that line, yes—the very last one. But it was only by his own efforts that he became the most powerful wizard in Britain. And he'll come back, one day, because he's too determined to be beaten_.

What _would_ her father have thought of Severus Snape? Would his protective fatherly impulses have led him to hex the balls off the man for seducing his daughter, apart from any other consideration? Would he have admired him for his ambition, regardless of his class? Or would he have despised him for attempting to rise to a level to which—unlike the Dark Lord—he had no possible claim?

The service began. Sarah stood and found herself swaying so badly she had to cling to the back of the pew in front of her, chiming in too late on the responses.

This was foolishness—why had she come at all? To have her guilty heart run through by yet another reminder of her wickedness? She had made confession at Easter, but now that seemed such a feeble, shrinking admission of her sins. Even her sins before that day seemed the palest grey compared to the blackness of the ones she had committed since. Of the ones she would be forced yet to commit. She could tick them off as the commandments were read. She had bowed down in reverence to a megalomaniac. And how could she honor her parents? The thing was impossible, when honoring one meant despising the other. She had not committed murder...yet, but how long would it be before that came, with Bella instructing her? She was at least guilty already of contemplating it. And adultery, too, was merely awaiting an occasion in the Notts' plans.

_I really am **married** to Severus_, she thought in despair. It had been easy to forget that, to feel as if they were still merely carrying on an illicit affair. And divorce...even her parents had not, to her knowledge, ever divorced. A divorce under Ministry law remained extremely difficult to get, and it was impossible to get one quietly.

On the other hand (her mind went off into a hazy fantasy) if Severus had managed to sneak their marriage certificate secretly into the Ministry files, surely it could be snuck out again? Surely he had not done it himself. Who in the Ministry needed to be bribed? How far would her uncle's thousand Galleons go toward that? How would she survive on her own?

"Kyrie eleison."

Sarah blinked, realizing she had lost all track of the service.

"Christe eleison," she chimed in weakly. "Kyrie eleison."

_Dear God, have mercy on my soul. And my baby_.

He had moved very little this morning. Those moments when he did not move were filled with a fear that she had lost him, that he had died within her, killed—however irrational that idea might be—by his parents' anger. And those moments when she felt him kick, the sensation was like an arrow through her heart. She had nothing to give him. She had no right to have conceived him at all.

Sarah wondered how she could remain standing. She felt so fuzzy that when it was time to sit, she was behind everyone else again. She let her head fall forward against her hands, where they still clutched the pew back, trying to make her mind focus on the reading.

_Time to stand up again_, the most alert part of her mind urged her.

She stood...or thought she did.

* * *

Sarah blinked. She was lying down. More specifically, she was lying down in the hospital wing. 

"Well, then," Madam Pomfrey said, moving the bottle of Reviving Potion away from her face. "This isn't a proper time for you to be fainting, Miss Darkglass."

"Did I...?" She must have. What, then, had happened after that? She felt a surge of panic as she realized that the reassuring pressure of the illusion belt was missing. At least Madam Pomfrey had screened off the bed.

"Reverend Hopkirk had Mr. Jones bring you up with a Mobilicorpus spell." Evan Jones was, as Sarah vaguely recalled, a seventh year Hufflepuff. Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips, far from pleased. "For a girl who has had so little trouble with her health, I'm at a loss to understand this. The pressure of exams is high, of course. Have you been eating and sleeping properly?"

_Oh_.

She must have said it aloud, or else her face was extremely eloquent, because Pomfrey immediately said, "You know better than that! When did you last eat?"

"Um...noon yesterday, I suppose," Sarah whispered, then more firmly, "Please don't be cross with me, Madam Pomfrey! I can't bear it." She turned her face against the pillow.

"Hmph. I mean to have a few words with Professor Snape," Pomfrey said. "I've sent a house-elf for him. Fortunately, the rest of the ward is empty this morning, apart from poor Mr. Montague."

"I don't want to see him," Sarah mumbled.

"Oh, dear," Pomfrey said quietly, but not terribly sympathetically. "You've had a quarrel? Not that I couldn't have predicted that, sooner or later. Well, let's get you something to eat, and perhaps you'll be in a better frame of mind to work things out."

Pomfrey slipped out between the screens and returned a few moments later with a large glass of pumpkin juice. With a flick of her wand, she propped Sarah into a sitting position, and the girl took the glass in shaking hands.

"I've added a bit of Reviving Elixir to that, so it should perk you up immediately."

As strength flowed back into her limbs, bitterness revived in Sarah's soul. How irresponsible was that—forgetting to eat? What sort of mother would she be, if she couldn't even take care of herself? No matter how miserable she was, she needed to...

"Pomfrey?" The voice was muffled by the screens, but unmistakable in its sharpness. "_Pomfrey?_"

Madam Pomfrey, who had been watching her patient, moved to the gap in the screens and beckoned silently.

The swish of robes had just grown loud enough to hear when Severus appeared at the gap, wild-eyed and looking far the worse for wear than he usually did. "What happened? Is she all right?" When his glance struck Sarah, he blinked, as if he dared not trust what he saw.

"Please calm down," Pomfrey chided.

"You didn't precisely send a detailed message!" he snapped.

"Would you have come if I'd told you she merely had a fainting spell?" Pomfrey's voice developed a sour note. "Perhaps you weren't aware that she's had nothing to eat in the past twenty-four hours?

"No, I wasn't." His eyes, strangely dull now, lighted on Sarah again. _Was that hatred or exhaustion or despair?_ "Are you sure that's all that's the matter with her? She hasn't been poisoned?"

"_Poisoned?_" The mediwitch looked at him as if she suspected him of having poisoned her patient himself.

"That is what I said, Pomfrey," Severus sneered.

"I shouldn't think so," she answered, perplexed. "Do you have reason to believe that?"

Severus ignored the woman, and went down on one knee at the side of the bed. "Sarah, how do you feel?" There was an earnestness in his expression that almost tempted her to forgive him. Almost.

"It's just as Madam Pomfrey said," she answered, carefully studying her own tense fingers grasping the sheet, trying to restrain herself from a nasty retort in front of Pomfrey. She was, she discovered, too proud to want the mediwitch to know how shamefully Severus had used her. "I had scarcely any breakfast or lunch yesterday, and no dinner last night." She glanced up at him challengingly. _Yes, that was your fault_. "I forgot breakfast this morning as well. It's no wonder I fainted."

"Where did she faint?" he asked, looking to Pomfrey. "Who knows of this?"

"In the chapel. And if you mean does anyone know of her condition, it's unlikely. Probably no one but the chaplain touched her, and he would not say anything even if he did realize the truth. And she was transported here by spell."

Severus stood up. "I want her checked by someone who knows what they're doing."

"Well, I like that!" Pomfrey retorted.

"I shall return within the hour," he said, ignoring her outrage. He glanced again quickly at Sarah.

"It's not as if you care about _me!_" she blurted out, driven to say something before he left this time.

The corner of his mouth twisted nastily into an expression of disdain. "_Never_ imagine you know what I feel," he said, silkily...icily.

Then he was gone.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey brought Sarah's lunch on a tray, muttering imprecations against Severus Snape under her breath. Aloud she said, "Perhaps I ought to hold my tongue, young lady, but you've made more than one mistake there, in my opinion." 

"I'm beginning to think so, too," Sarah said. But her heart winced with the disloyalty as she said it. She must talk..._think_, about something else, or she wouldn't be able to eat a bite. Not that she was hungry even yet. She picked up her spoon and poked at the mashed yams. "Is Montague any better?"

Madam Pomfrey looked a bit surprised at her inquiry. "He's coming along well enough now, if slowly. Whatever happened to him affected his mind somehow. He has lucid periods, and they're getting longer. But he's still too unstable when he goes into his fits to go back to his dormitory."

At that, Pomfrey left to pursue whatever business she got up to when her patient load was light. Sarah was tempted to sneak out of bed to see if the woman was secretly reading steamy novels in her office, but somehow it didn't seem worth the expenditure of energy. In fact, as soon as she finished eating, all she wanted to do was lie back and close her eyes.

* * *

She opened them to find Madam Pomfrey lifting away the tray and Miriam Snape bending over her, feeling her hand. 

"Well, good morning," Miriam said with almost convincing brightness. "Or afternoon, now, I suppose. Madam Pomfrey, are these screens Muffled?

"Of course they are." Pomfrey looked none too pleased at the invasion of her territory.

"Excellent. Now, all you lot leave," Miriam included Severus, who was hanging back near the gap in the screens, in her sweeping glance, "and I'll see if I can't do summat for Sarah."

"There's nothing you can do for me," Sarah said, sullenly, when the others were gone.

"Well, I admit—I can only mend your body. So let's see first to that. You really mustn't lie so, on your back. Shift your knees, one way or t'other. There."

The slight change of position did make a difference. The baby did not feel so heavy, no longer pressing against her spine.

Miriam felt her forehead, clenched her wrist for a good half-minute, and asked to see her tongue. "Do you still feel faint?"

"Not really. Only...tired," Sarah admitted. There was more pain her voice than she had planned to reveal. _Don't let her ask too many questions. Or else I'll weep on her shoulder. Which is hardly a thing I should do_.

"Hmmm, yes. Severus told me you'd quite the exciting weekend. Oh, he didn't give me many details," Miriam reassured. "He seldom tells all he knows, as I imagine you've learned well enough."

_To my everlasting sorrow_.

"Now, the baby." Miriam helped Sarah move her robes aside to show her bare, bulging abdomen. She did not, in truth, want Miriam to touch her. Not because of any newfound disdainfulness of class, but because she was Severus' aunt. Surely she would care most about what was best for _him_, not for Sarah.

"He's growing and all, as he should," was Miriam's verdict, after she did her midwifery magic and helped Sarah set her clothes to rights.

"He...he hasn't moved as much today," Sarah said, worried.

"No?" Miriam frowned. "Well, it may be he's as little energy as you, what with you starving the both of you as you've been doing. You mustn't forget to eat, no matter how upset you may be."

"He told you we quarreled, didn't he?" Sarah asked uneasily. Had he had reported the subject of that quarrel to his aunt?

"Aye, he did. He's in a right ruddy state. Snapes don't take well to being challenged, if you haven't figured that out by now."

Sarah frowned ruefully at her fingers.

"You can't take it to heart, cherub." Miriam gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. "It's all of a piece with them. When you pick up one end of the stick, you pick up the other, and there's no use wishing otherwise."

"Did he tell you...?" Sarah began, frustrated, then changed her tack. "What did he have to say for himself?"

"That you were in the wrong, of course. Not listening to him. Not believing him. Mind you, he didn't say what it was about."

"_I_ in the wrong?" Sarah snorted. "_I'm_ not the one who's lied and made pretenses."

Miriam's eyebrows drew together, and she frowned slightly, as if she didn't quite understand.

_No, of course Miriam wouldn't understand_. The last impression Severus' aunt had of her was a girl too in love to be thinking of something so crass as snobbery.

"Surely you realized," Miriam said, after a moment's consideration, "that you'd never have the whole truth from him. He's not that kind of man. Not out of maliciousness, mind you. But men seldom know their own minds. And when their minds are as deep a morass as his, it's all the more difficult to pry out what they're thinking and what they mean by what they say."

"A morass." Sarah grimaced.

"You don't think so?"

"I suppose I do." But it was hard to admit that his motives might not be as unremittingly black as she wanted to believe. "I just...I thought I knew him a little better than...than this."

"So," Miriam said, "he's gone and done something you can't forgive him for, and now he's not the man you fell in love with, is that it?" Her tone was so reasonable, it made Sarah feel foolish, and yet at the same time prevented her from feeling the depth of rancor toward the woman that she wanted to.

"I've forgiven him for a great many things!" Sarah said. Suddenly tears brimmed up. She held them back, but she felt terribly deflated. _Why_ had Miriam to remind her that she loved the man? She shook her head. Her voice wavered. "I don't know why I can't forgive him for this."

Miriam squeezed her arm again. "Everything seems worse when you're bearing a baby. The whole thought of your body is to protect the child, and even the least thing can seem a threat."

"There are so _many_ threats," Sarah said. She blinked and felt tears run down her cheeks, her grief getting the better of her at last. "Everyone wants to use me for something. Even Severus."

Miriam said nothing, then, for a long while, and it was difficult to say if her solemn expression betrayed shock or dismay or bewilderment or simply deep thought. Sarah wished she dared tell the woman everything. But it was too complicated—even if it were safe to do so, she would not know where to begin.

"Sarah," Miriam said, at last, "I know little enough about your family, but please hear me out."

Sarah gave a puzzled half-nod, wondering if Severus had said more to his aunt than she claimed, or if Miriam's powers of ascertaining were really very prodigious.

"How'd I ought to say this? You know the interest the Malfoys take in Knockturn. There was a time—not in living memory, mind you, but still in memory—when the Darkglasses were some of the patrons of the Snapes."

_A personal vendetta? Oh, that's rich! _Rage once more overtook the urge to weep.

"I don't tell you this to make you feel badly," Miriam said firmly, clearly having noted the shift in Sarah's expression. "But you'd ought to understand that even the highest aren't above using others for their own ends. It's the way of world."

"I know that." Sarah folded her arms tautly. "I'm not a child."

"Nor did I say you were. But I daresay you're young enough yet not to accept it."

Sarah, poised to make another prickly answer, found that she had none. It was true—she did not want to accept it. "People ought not to use people they care about," she said sullenly.

_Not that he had reason to care, then_, a snarky little voice took the opportunity to remind her. _Nor did you_.

"That's easy enough for you and I to say," Miriam answered. "But think how it's been for Severus. There's been few enough people, as I know of, who've been interested in what's best for him, instead of what he could do for them. He grew up breathing that in the very air. You might give a thought to that before you judge him." She patted Sarah's hand and stood up, as if she had reached the conclusion of what she meant to say.

Kerflummoxed, both by unwanted guilt and by a desperate need to pour out her heart to someone who might understand—someone she had foolishly hoped against hope would be Miriam—Sarah blurted out, "It's only _him_ you care about! You don't want me to hurt _him!_ You don't care how _I_ feel!"

"Ah, Sarah." Miriam shook her head. "I don't want either of you hurt. But neither you nor I can change what he is or what he does. You only have power over what _you_ choose to do."

"_It isn't my fault!_" Sarah protested.

"Nor did I say it was," Miriam answered calmly. "But still, you have power only over yourself. You can pout and grieve. Or you can make up your mind to be happy with what you've got." Leaving Sarah to fume over this philosophy, Miriam stepped to the gap in the screens and beckoned to the others.

"Is she all right?" Severus asked.

"She's well enough. But she's been under too much strain of late."

"It _is_ examination time," Pomfrey put in, still looking put out.

"Be that as it may, she needs more rest than she's been getting. If she goes on as she is, she'll put both herself and the child in danger. When are these examinations?"

"The N.E.W.T.s begin a week from tomorrow," Severus said. "Sarah has three subjects—theory and practicals in each—over a two week span. Do you suggest she ought not to take them, Miriam?"

Miriam looked at her patient.

"I've _got_ to take them!" Sarah said, distressed. Miriam had not said one word to her about having to rest or being in danger.

"It'll do her no harm, I expect, if she rests _strictly_ between now and then. You're not to allow her to worry, fret, cry or to go without eating or sleeping as she ought. If that can't be managed here, I'll have to take her home with me."

"No!" protested Sarah, and was surprised find Severus speaking in unison with her.

"She's safer here, Miriam," Severus went on.

Not that she _had_ been. But Sarah wasn't about to argue.

"I'm quite sure I can tend more than adequately to her care, Mrs. Snape," Madam Pomfrey said.

"Very well, then. I leave her to you." Miriam turned and sent an unexpected wink at Sarah. "I'll see you when the term is over, cherub—don't make me come back any sooner. Severus, you'll have to show me to the gates. I'm apt to get lost."

With that, she departed, leaving Madam Pomfrey to glare after her.

"Rest, is it?" Pomfrey said, fussily tucking in a loose corner of Sarah's blanket. "You'll have rest enough. You'll not step foot outside the hospital wing until your first exam."

"But...classes!" Sarah protested. "I have to study and—"

"You'll do nothing of the kind. If it's rest you're to have, it's rest you will get."

"I'll go mad lying here!"

"I haven't had a patient go mad from lying here yet." And with that, Madam Pomfrey and her dignity left Sarah to stew in the outward trappings of repose.

* * *

**A/N:** In the original first draft of the previous chapter, I was going to land Sarah in the infirmary by having her go into pre-term labor in the middle of their argument. I had got as far as having Severus attempt to carry her up the back stairs when it occurred to me that this was just far too outrageously funny. Cecelle confirmed my suspicions that I'd gone into the realms of melodrama. So I had to rethink a different (and more realistic) path to the same end, and this is what came to me. 

I'm grateful that, so far, no one's ever complained about the wee bit of religious activity I've put into this story. It's just something that seems to surface for these characters from time to time. Given that Joanne has confirmed, in interview, that Sirius being Harry's godfather was, in fact, related to his christening, and considering that the Hufflepuff ghost is the Fat _Friar_, I feel on fairly solid (HP)-canonical ground with how I've handled it. Hopkirk is a genuine HP canon surname, and my use of it here is meant to be amusing, both for those who understand the etymology, and those who know which canon character shares it.

Up next: N.E.W.T.s


	43. Ch 42: The Unseen Genius

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** As I've mentioned before, it's not mine. Just having some fun with a great universe. No harm intended.

**A/N:** Sorry it's been a little longer than I intended. I've had my best friend and faithful beta come to visit, and I've run a Harry Potter Day Camp at a science fiction convention. That's in addition to dealing with various Halloween activities for my three kids. (For a report of the Day Camp, check my homepage.)

My reviewers are so great! So, many thanks to morwen24, Bellegeste, Lady Whitehart, Samantha-Ives, DorkyColaGeek730, AlanaRose, Jenny Lecil, cecelle, whitehound, becca, lucidity, tall oaks, javoher and TessaCilory. Plus, extra thanks to cecelle for lending a discerning eye to this chapter and the next one.

Mafalda Hopkirk is the witch who sends Harry warnings about under-age use of magic. (I'm postulating that the Reverend Hopkirk is her brother.) 'Kirk' is the Scots word for 'church.' Technically, the 'hop' part means 'valley' or 'sheltered place,' but the English etymology seems more amusing: someone who hops from church to church—which, in a sense, the Reverend Hopkirk does. :)

In this chapter, Sarah begins her N.E.W.T.s. 'Nuff said.

* * *

**Chapter 42: The Unseen Genius**

Sarah drowsed off again, waiting for Severus to return. It was only when she woke, several hours later, to find the late afternoon light angling in through the windows, that she began to wonder whether he was going to return at all.

He hadn't come back while she was sleeping, Madam Pomfrey informed her when she asked. With that more likely possibility eliminated, it occurred to Sarah to wonder if something terrible had happened, down by the gates. _Serves him right_, she thought stubbornly. But no, no one would risk the Dark Lord's wrath on that point. Not yet. Severus had simply decided that he didn't want to see her.

_Well, fine then. I don't want to see him either_.

It was almost unbearable, simply lying here, with nothing to do. She had a contest of wills with Madam Pomfrey over whether she was even to be allowed to use the bathroom on her own. Sarah won by pointing out that Miriam had ordered 'rest,' not 'being confined to bed.' It was appalling that dinner-on-a-tray was now a relatively exciting event.

Pomfrey went off to dinner in the Great Hall, leaving her one of her assistants or apprentices in charge of the ward. Probably an apprentice, Sarah guessed, from the way the young man stayed put in Pomfrey's office, only occasionally peering out to check on the patients. Most Hogwarts apprentices were more or less socially invisible—intentionally so. Given that they were known to the older students, respect for them was not expected to be high. They weren't permitted to teach, usually ate in their chambers or labs, and contact with the rest of the student body was minimal until (and if) they reached the level of assistantship.

_My apprenticeship!_ Well, it had never been a certain thing. Her agreement with Bellatrix, if it could not be broken somehow, would obviate the possibility anyway.

No—Sarah came to a sudden conclusion—she would rather _die_ than allow Bellatrix Lestrange to control her. Would the Dark Lord hold her to that agreement, if she explained the circumstances and begged for...

For what? _Mercy?_ That creature did not know the meaning of the word. At best, it would amuse him to indulge her. And if she did not have an alternative to propose, what reason had he to cast aside the plans that his dearest follower had forced on her?

And now that she had no reason to bow and scrape and pretend before that monster, Sarah was beginning to wonder if death would be the best mercy she could hope for. Women _did_ die, now and again, in childbirth, even if it was uncommon. But what of her son then? Was there any hope that Miriam could take him and hide him? For Severus' sake, at least, if not for hers?

Would he grow up, then, as Severus had, in Knockturn Alley? Not the same sort of nobody. But still, her name might well be a stumbling block for him there, not a benefit, if the desire to lash out at some helpless member of their masters' class was as strong in the other children who grew up there. She remembered the ragged boys playing gobstones, and her heart—poor numbed thing that it was becoming—was pierced with apprehension.

At the sound of firm, purposeful footsteps coming toward her bed, Sarah raised her eyes, hope springing up heedlessly. But the moment the edge of a hat came in sight, she knew it was not Severus.

It was Professor McGonagall.

"Well, I'm glad to see you've returned. And as safely as we could have expected," McGonagall said. To her credit, the woman looked genuinely relieved. But her words set off questions in Sarah's mind.

"What did you expect?" Sarah frowned slightly as McGonagall pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat in it.

"You _were_ in some danger, according to Severus. And to be kidnapped under Professor Umbridge's very nose...to be taken forcibly from the school grounds with her consent!" McGonagall's voice tightened with ill-concealed fury. "Albus would never have permitted such a thing! And now the strain has put both your health and your future in jeopardy."

"I'll be fine," Sarah said, not sure why she felt the impulse to placate her professor, but doing so anyway. She had gotten in the habit of placating everybody, it seemed. "I'm to rest until exams, but I'm sure I'll do fine."

_As if you wouldn't have been just as happy if I'd lost the baby in my misadventure!_ The thought, directed at McGonagall, seemed to come out of nowhere, but Sarah felt that it was true. The woman's profound mortification at the situation Sarah had got herself in had worn down a spot in Sarah's self-esteem. Deserved, perhaps. But Sarah was not in the mood to take blame.

"I was referring to the agreement you were forced to make. Yes, Severus told me," McGonagall said, in the face of Sarah's surprise. "Everything possible is being done to protect you."

"I'm sure none of you would want anything bad to happen to me," Sarah said ironically. The subtle sarcasm might have slipped past someone else, but McGonagall had been accustomed to dealing with students for far too long.

"Madam Pomfrey told me you'd quarreled with Severus."

"I thought everything about me was supposed to be kept _secret_." More irony, shoveled on liberally.

"From those who would do you harm, not those who are trying to help you," McGonagall said, exasperated. "Young lady, I realize you've had a very difficult weekend, but you do not have the luxury of this sort of attitude. None of us do."

Unable to frame a ready retort with her mouth full of the generous helping of guilt and responsibility that her Head of House had just served her, Sarah studied the drape of the blanket over her knees and fumed.

"Your dorm mates are quite concerned about you," McGonagall went on. "Pomfrey has been keeping them out, but I'm not sure my report will satisfy them. You had better be prepared to face visitors with a demeanor appropriate to your supposed condition."

"What are you telling them?"

"That you've suffered a breakdown of your nerves from studying too hard, which is common enough at this time of year. Joscelyn Stanley of Hufflepuff was being brought in as I arrived."

"They know I had a fight with...well, my 'boyfriend.'"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "I had meant to wait to discuss your indiscretions—"

"Indiscretions!" Sarah protested. "I told Angelina what I had to in order to keep my secrets!"

"The fact that you had to tell her anything means that you were nearly caught," McGonagall said sternly.

"The fact that I was able to convince her of something plausible means that I'm good at this game. And before you have a fit at me for calling it a game, that _is_ what it is, Professor, regardless of how high the stakes are. And yes, I know how high the stakes are. Probably better than anyone. You haven't stood before...before _him_—"

"Enough," McGonagall interrupted. "I do see your point. But can we finish out the school year without any more disasters? To be honest," she confessed with a sigh, "I'm seriously considering resigning my post. I can't bear to work for that woman. It's altogether too much of a strain at my age. Now, don't you say a word of that to anyone, not even Severus. I don't want him distracted by the thought of becoming Deputy Headmaster in my place."

"_Does he want that, too?_" Sarah asked. The repugnance she had felt for his ambitions had been fading somewhat, but now it revived at full force.

McGonagall furrowed her brow, clearly puzzled. "He has been Professor Dumbledore's unofficial secondary deputy for the past four years, ever since Professor Flitwick decided that he wasn't up to it any longer. Admittedly, Severus is still rather young for such a position, and now he has a great many more responsibilities than when he first took on the post." McGonagall frowned, and Sarah understood that the woman considered her a large part of that burden. "I daresay he has drive enough to become headmaster—providing circumstances will permit that—someday. He would certainly be better than...well, the current regime..."

Sarah stared at her Head of House. And not simply because she had trouble imagining that Professor McGonagall was willing to consider Severus Snape as headmaster of Hogwarts. "You don't want...to be headmistress yourself?"

"Gracious! No." McGonagall shook her head. "It may not have occurred to you, but I _enjoy_ teaching. And unlike our present headmistress, I would not be so foolish as to attempt to teach _and _run the school at the same time. I don't suppose you know whether she's using a Time Turner?" McGonagall's voice had dropped to a whisper.

A Time Turner. Sarah had heard of them—and the dangers they presented—in the cautionary tales told to wizard children. It made sense that Umbridge would use one—how else could she possibly run the school _and_ teach _and_ sit in on the classes of the teachers she was trying to sack?

"I've never seen her do it," Sarah admitted. "But it never occurred to me to look for signs of it. If I wasn't stuck here for the rest of the term, I might be able to find out." Pomfrey had already vetoed Sarah's pledge to rest quietly if she were allowed to do so in her own room.

McGonagall sighed. "I doubt that it would help, even if we could catch her. Her connections in the Ministry would be sure to find a way around any illegality in what she's doing. Anyway, you're not to fret. It is no longer your problem."

* * *

Professor Umbridge did not agree. She appeared at lunchtime on Monday, furious to find her sole Gryffindor member of the Inquisitorial Squad on the sick list. Fortunately, Pomfrey had decided that it was safer for Sarah to wear her illusion belt at all times. Two more students had been brought in later Sunday evening, one of them babbling on about Switching Spells, the other simply staring into space. Watching them was easier than facing her own problems, and Sarah had kept charming the screens aside (_just far enough to see_, she'd explained) until Pomfrey had given up. 

Umbridge, however, did not have much luck against Pomfrey. The new headmistress, pressed for time as always, could not have afforded the effort necessary to wear down the medi-witch, even had she been inclined to attempt anything except brute force to get her way.

Sarah, happy to be helpful to Madam Pomfrey in this instance, made a great show of apologizing to Professor Umbridge for her weakness, complete with such a fit of 'nerves' that she thoroughly convinced the woman that the medi-witch _wasn't_ merely trying to obstruct the unpopular headmistress by confining the girl to the hospital wing. Umbridge, unable to put any civility into her get-well wishes, went off in a huff. Madam Pomfrey, however, saw a perfectly calm young woman winking slyly at her as Umbridge left. Probably in consequence, she agreed to consider Sarah's request for permission to read novels.

* * *

After supper, Angelina and Katie came to visit. Katie wore an expression of abject apology. 

"I don't know why I forgot," Katie said. "The last thing I'd want to do is get somebody in trouble with Professor Snape." She frowned.

"Was he angry anyway?" Angelina asked. "I suppose McGonagall told him you cancelled your appointment?"

Well, that was as good a reason as any to use...

"Yeah, he was. When I got back on Saturday, I went down to check my lab. I was already really upset because of...what happened." Sarah grimaced, quite genuinely. But she made a careful point of saying the phrase in such a hesitant way as to discourage further inquiry. "When Snape came along and went spare at me about not taking my Potions N.E.W.T. seriously...well...I guess I just couldn't cope anymore. I didn't even think of eating, which I guess is why I passed out at chapel..." McGonagall had told her what facts of her illness were already common knowledge. "Now Pomfrey says I'm not to touch a textbook all this week. I'm all right, really," Sarah reassured them with intentionally false brightness. "Just...so much at once..."

"You'll be all right." Angelina patted her hand—a gesture that Sarah was beginning to find annoying, as everyone seemed to think it was the universal signal of reassurance.

* * *

Sarah was a little surprised to find that she really _did_ need rest. She slept a good deal more than she would have supposed she possibly could. Madam Pomfrey went away offended when Sarah asked if her food was being drugged. But sleep was easier than thinking about...well, about anything. There was precious little she _could_ think about without becoming upset, and the sudden peace she had found in being confined to the hospital wing was a thing, she discovered, that she did not want disturbed. 

So she read the novels Angelina smuggled down to her, watched other students come and go, while Pomfrey dispensed nerve-steadying potions and took away textbooks, and occasionally went over the steps of the Wolfsbane Potion in her head. The ability to make that, it slowly occurred to her, was a thing that would guarantee her _some_ income, whatever happened. At least he had given her that, she thought grudgingly.

The other thing he had given her...she had never imagined wanting to escape from that. But the invisible, indelible child was a constant reminder of all the things Sarah did not want to think of, a source of stress that Pomfrey could not assiduously withhold. And he was 'the child' now. Sarah toyed occasionally with other names. Her mother's father had been Alfred, a name which conjured an unflattering image of an infant with white sideburns and beard. No, definitely not. And Malcolm, as much as she had loved her father, seemed a name of ill omen. She couldn't seem to remember her other grandfather's name: he had died when she was a baby, or perhaps even before she was born, and neither her father nor Fiona had spoken much of him. She had thought of her baby as Severian for so long...

And still Severus did not come to see her.

It was Thursday before she could bring herself to mention his continued absence to Madam Pomfrey. Even obliquely.

"He asks after you every day," Pomfrey informed her.

"Me? Or...?" Sarah touched her stomach; it was late and no one else seemed to be awake, but she didn't dare risk speaking more plainly.

"He doesn't say a word about that," Pomfrey said primly. And left Sarah—with rather absurd orders to get back to sleep—to ponder out the significance of that on her own.

* * *

Sarah's first exam, in Herbology, was not until Wednesday of the following week. But Pomfrey had to let her out for a few hours on Monday to make sure all her Potions supplies were in order. She went down to the dungeons with no little trepidation, even though she readily accepted Angelina's generous offer to come along—presumably to make sure that Sarah didn't pass out again while at the mercy of the Slytherins, although Angelina hinted once, as they descended, at the anxiety that Sarah might run into her 'boyfriend.' But Snape was nowhere in evidence, unless the carefully restocked supply of ingredients was his doing. It could hardly be anyone else's, she realized grimly—no one else could have got into her workroom. 

Her components for the Wolfsbane were exactly as she had left them. As tempting as it was to make a batch, just to be sure she still could, Sarah knew that Pomfrey would probably drag her back upstairs by the ear if she wasn't back before curfew. Nor was it fair to keep Angelina from her books that long. So she reluctantly reset her wards and followed her dorm mate back into the custody of her jailer.

Sarah couldn't help doubting that she would do as well on her exams as she would if she'd been allowed to cram, like everyone else. But at least, she reflected, they would now be a fair test of what she really knew. She came out of the written Herbology exam with confidence that she'd done well enough for an 'E,' if not an 'O.'

The practical was a bit more difficult. Not having been down to the greenhouses for almost two weeks put her at a disadvantage in being familiar with the plants in their current state of growth, but she'd certainly passed, although she felt sure that her overall grade would not be an 'O.'

Now she had days and days to wait until the Potions exam on Monday. The hospital wing was mainly deserted—the fifth and seventh year students had reached a point where worrying themselves sick was no longer an option. She got a few flying visits by her dorm mates, even those who hadn't yet come to see her, since everyone wanted to bemoan their exam performance to as many people as possible.

On Friday, there was an amusing bit of fuss when Professor Umbridge limped into the infirmary, supported a by couple of I.S. members, and shouting at the top of her lungs. Apparently a second niffler had appeared in her office. Pomfrey fixed up the gash in her leg as quickly as possible. Sarah hid herself under her sheets, trying not to giggle out loud, until the enraged headmistress went away.

But for the rest of the weekend, there was silence—a silence which did Sarah no good at all. She had run out of novels, and the last one had touched far too closely on her own situation for comfort. Life, unfortunately, was not a novel, where everything came out all right in the end. Certainly Severus was not the heart-of-gold hero riding boldly to the heroine's rescue. If he _had_ come for her, Sarah thought crossly, it might be easier to forgive him for the rest.

She simply _must_ do well on the Potions exam. If she managed to make the Wolfsbane correctly for the examiner, she knew an 'O' was guaranteed—possibly even a special commendation (which wouldn't hurt her chances of eventually finding another apprenticeship _somewhere_)—regardless of the rest of the exam. Not that she wouldn't have done well anyway. Not when she had been brewing potions at far above N.E.W.T. level for a very particular teacher for the past six months.

Monday morning finally arrived. Sarah wrote her Potions N.E.W.T. in a kind of haze, feeling bizarrely as if she were sitting just another end-of-term exam. Angelina took her for a walk outside afterward (presumably on Pomfrey's orders), and urged her to have lunch in the Great Hall. But the hospital wing had become a kind of refuge—she was assured of not meeting Severus there—and all she really wanted was a nap before she had to face her practical.

The N.E.W.T. Potions practical was more complicated than the Herbology practical had been. The seventh year students had the first part of the afternoon free while the fifth years did their O.W.L. practical. Then, from mid-afternoon until dinnertime, the N.E.W.T. candidates brewed in Examinations Authority cauldrons, with Examinations Authority ingredients, in the Great Hall. The exam consisted of a couple of potions that were short on preparation time but long on trickiness, and then a standard N.E.W.T. level healing potion. Sarah felt that she could have made them in her sleep. She was not entirely sure, when she finished, that she had not.

The students were dismissed with explicit instructions not to enter their workrooms until it was time for the remainder of the examination, which was to take place after dinner. They were also encouraged to eat well—a direction that, from the mumbling that followed the announcement, some of them expected to have difficulty following.

Sarah retreated to hospital wing for another dinner-on-a-tray, and came back at six o'clock. The students were directed to the small room off the Great Hall, where they waited anxiously for the examiners to call them. Just as in the Herbology practical, four students were called at a time. Curiously, though, they were not called in alphabetical order. And everyone was surprised when Professor Tofty, who had taken Billy Ferny out less than twenty minutes before, returned for Olive Barnley.

A number of theories circulated among the nervous seventh years. Valancy Sterling said that the examiners must get each person started, but then go around keeping tabs on several at a time after that. Dirk Nightshade thought that they only had to watch a bit of your technique, and you'd never have to actually finish the potion at all. Wishful thinking, several opined in response to Dirk's assertion. But no one knew, and it made everyone jittery.

Sarah was one of last to be called, although just over an hour had passed since the first group went out. Professor Mendelev escorted her down to her dungeon workroom. He carefully shut the door and pulled a small hourglass on a chain out of his robes.

"Do you know what this is, Miss Darkglass?" he asked.

Sarah studied the little device in his palm for a moment. "Is it a Time Turner?"

"Excellent—very astute," he said. "Now, I'm sure you're aware of the hazards involved in the manipulation of time. So you must answer my next question with absolute truthfulness. Have you been in your workroom at any point today?"

"No, sir," Sarah said.

"Very good. Time Turners are, as you might suppose, a highly restricted artifact. You will be expected to keep the use of this one secret. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Professor Mendelev held up the Time Turner. "The Wizarding Examinations Authority had some difficulty deciding how long to allow for the Wolfsbane Potion. Not a typical student project, you see. Do you believe that five hours will be sufficient?"

Sarah gaped. _Five hours?_ It might have taken her that long the very first time, from this stage in the preparation, but she'd completed a successful potion a half-dozen times since then. "I believe I only need three, sir."

Professor Mendelev looked dubious. "If you're certain. You were, of course, left to last because of the doubt, so if you go over, it will not interfere with the schedule. Although I must admit it _would_ interfere with my sleep, which I'm already missing now. Still, the missed sleep will be worth it if you can actually produce an accurate Wolfsbane Potion." The thought seemed to cheer him.

"I'm certain, sir."

The examiner lifted the slender chain and dropped it over Sarah's head, then carefully turned the glass over three times. The torch that lit the room flickered oddly, but there was no other obvious change. Professor Mendelev removed the chain from Sarah's neck and tucked it back into the front of his robes. "You may begin."

Sarah closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to find that hypnotic space. It was difficult, especially when she was so accustomed to having Severus' steady presence at her elbow while she made this particular potion. It was impossible to say why Professor Mendelev did not fulfill the same function, but even with her eyes closed, Sarah felt the difference.

_Damn him!_ _I can make this potion, whether he's here or not. He was never going to be_.

_Will he ever be again?_

_Well, not if I don't get this right. That's certain, if nothing else is_.

Ready or not, she needed to begin.

Sarah took down her ingredients with unsteady hands, then forced them to be steady as she began the next step in the process. One by one, she added the necessary elements to the cauldron, finding herself eventually in the familiar groove, although her concentration wobbled when she realized it.

_Just don't think about it. Don't think about anything_.

That was easier to decide than to do. The baby provided occasional reminders of his presence. But she had learned to work with that distraction since Easter, and if she focused on that familiar reality, rather than all the difficulties that now surrounded his existence...

_Just don't interrupt anything vital, _she pleaded silently.

For a wonder, he didn't. The set of her mouth remained fixed exactly right, the stirring spoon went round exactly so, stopping and changing directions precisely where it should, hour after hour.

Essence of silver.

One...two...three...four...five...

_Whoosh!_

"Well!" Professor Mendelev exclaimed, as Sarah—ready for the final reaction—stepped back from the finished potion, which was giving off the perfect quantity of smoke.

Trying to contain her surge of elation, Sarah filled a sample flask and passed it to Professor Mendelev, who had begun examining his notes briskly. She watched him hold the flask up to the light. Then he uncorked it, sniffed it, compared his notes again.

"Amazing!" he said. "I honestly didn't believe it could be done. Of course, Professor Snape is excellent at preparing his students. But I didn't expect such results as this from _any_ student." He shook his head, befuddled wonder still suffusing his face. "You are a very talented young potion-maker, Miss Darkglass. I expect to hear good things of you in the future."

This speech of praise, conversely, deflated Sarah. What future had she? Would Professor Mendelev be so effusive if he knew that she might be called upon to brew this very potion for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Oh yes, she thought ironically, Snape had been excellent at preparing her for that as well.

But Professor Mendelev was waiting for a response, and Sarah forcibly reminded herself that she had just bought a ticket from him to whatever good possibilities she might have.

"Thank you, sir," she said, and the relief in her voice was genuine.

"That will do, then. You may clean up your work and go." He made a few hasty marks on his clipboard, then miniaturized it and tucked it away. "But if I may," he held up the sample flask with a grin that seemed altogether incongruous on his long, serious face, "I would like to take this back to the office."

* * *

**A/N:** Anyone get the reference about Mendelev? 

Both Severus, action and OotP events return in the next chapter. Hang in there!

Oh, and while I'm at it, I'd like to recommend some stories I've been reading lately: Bellegeste's "The Chosen," Samantha-Ives' "The Spy and the Apprentice" and especially whitehound's "Mood Music."


	44. Ch 43: Half Your Cast Disappears

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** It would be really nice if I were J. K. Rowling. Not only would I be able to redeem Snape, but my bank account would be much happier as well. But alas, I am not. So I'm only doing this for fun. Got that?

**A/N:** First off, I want to apologize to all my faithful readers that it's taken so long to get this chapter out. After two and half weeks of watching me run around like mad dealing with real life, my muse decided to take a vacation. Fortunately, she recently returned with a nice tan.

Most everyone guessed that Mendelev was a reference to the guy who created the Periodic Table of the Elements. Good job!

This being the week of Thanksgiving, I want to give thanks for Victoria Sangrecordia, Bellegeste, Lady Whitehart, Darla, Foreigner Lady, BradyB66, lucidity, cecelle, AlanaRose12, becca, TessaCilory, Jace, Jenni Lecil and all my other readers/reviewers—you guys are the greatest!

I also want to give a great big hug to cecelle, for her input on this chapter! By way of thanks for all her help and advice from the very start of my participation in fan-fic, I've made a reference to two of her stories. :)

And now, back to our behind-the-scenes look at _Order of the Phoenix_...

* * *

**Chapter 43: Half Your Cast Disappears**

Sarah climbed the stairs to the hospital wing more exhausted than the hour would suggest. More exhausted, for that matter, than the number of actual hours that had passed would suggest. She was bone tired. Her invisibly burgeoning stomach felt heavy, and her back ached. Any temptation to gloat over her performance to her dorm mates was squashed by the prospect of walking up all those flights to the Gryffindor common room.

_A special commendation?_ Her heart rose. _Is it too much to hope for?_ They were so rarely given. But if she got one... It would give her more choices, for one. Surely even the Dark Lord would accept that she was too good at potions to be wasted on Bella's pet project. She might be offered an apprenticeship by someone notable, without even having to apply. Although—her hopes fell—the Dark Lord would not approve of her apprenticing with anyone but Severus.

Well, even if she were forced to leave Britain, surely any foreign authorities would have to recognize that she had attained the highest possible level in her subject. Wouldn't they? In Europe perhaps, but that was hardly far enough away to be safe if the Dark Lord sent his Death Eaters to punish an erstwhile follower for fleeing his service.

America then? (Setting aside that she had no way of getting there.) She had heard that Americans were dreadfully disdainful of anything foreign. They might well consider her N.E.W.T.s worthless. _Maybe Canada?_ she thought, as she pushed through the doors to the hospital wing.

"Did you do well?" Madam Pomfrey asked. Her expression said that Sarah had better have made the expenditure of energy worthwhile.

"Yes," Sarah said, an involuntary smile such as Pomfrey had never witnessed forming on her lips. "But I just want to sleep."

"An excellent idea." Pomfrey settled her patient and pulled the screens around the bed, leaving Sarah curled up on her side, already drowsing off.

* * *

Sarah woke with a start in the darkened ward, aware of someone's presence. Not Pomfrey—she was so familiar with the woman's tread and manner of moving that, even if it woke her, she went right back to sleep. Sarah twisted round, feeling reflexively for her wand, as if her unconscious mind had already recognized a threat. 

Standing at the gap in the screens was Severus Snape.

With her heart torn in a dozen different directions at once, she sat up uneasily.

"I...thought you weren't coming back," she said.

Severus slipped inside, then stopped without moving any closer.

"It seemed better not to disturb you," he said quietly, as if he were still afraid of waking her. "No good could come of further quarrelling between us."

This answer was so eminently reasonable that Sarah felt a little foolish for believing he had stayed away because he hated her. _But_, an inner voice spoke up, _don't you hate him?_

"Why are you here now?" she asked, unable to quell the hint of suspicion in her voice.

"I meant to stay away until after you'd completed all your examinations," he said. "That would have been the wisest—"

"But you had to know how I did in Potions," Sarah finished. Was it touching, that he cared? Was it offensive, that it was his efforts in preparing her that he wanted to gauge? Was it irritating, that _that_ had driven him up here, when nothing else had?

"I could hardly lack interest in the outcome," he said stiffly.

She half-wanted to refuse to answer, to make him suffer, to make him as irritated at her as she was at him. But she wanted badly to tell someone to whom it really mattered.

"I made the Wolfsbane perfectly." She did not bother to suppress the note of triumph.

His tone, when he spoke, was impossible to read. "I suppose I should be grateful that you were not too ruffled to do so."

"I won't hold you to my apprenticeship papers," Sarah said, feeling the sting of his lack of enthusiasm. "I won't hold you to anything."

"I was under the impression," his voice tightened into his familiar sarcasm, "that it was you who had ejected me from your life, not the other way around."

Sarah was at a loss for words.

"Regardless of your feelings," he went on, "there are mutual concerns we must discuss. But not now."

"Maybe I..." she began. She _missed_ him, with a desperation that had wound itself painfully around her heart. She felt, for an instant, that she would do or say anything to have things back the way they had been. "Maybe I was wrong."

It was a distressing admission, and the angry part of her mind clamored for renewed attention to the fact that he had used her horribly. But...had that only been in the beginning? She remembered the look in his eyes the last time he had come rushing into the hospital wing. Somewhere, in the time between those events, had he begun to love her? Or was it only that he had become very, very good at shamming? That was, after all, as natural to him as breathing.

"It was a mistake to discuss the subject when we did," he said. He did not say whose mistake it had been. Presumably hers, and yet his voice lost some of its edge when he said it. "I will not be drawn into discussing it now. You still have one N.E.W.T. to complete. Focus your attention on that. You and I both know that Astronomy is your weakest subject."

"Thank you for your confidence in me," Sarah said sarcastically.

"I was not aware that my confidence had any influence on you," he said. "Not any longer, at least."

"Maybe more than you suppose." Sarah's hands tightened on the blankets, and her voice betrayed her.

"Then I am more impressed that you succeeded with the Wolfsbane." And before she could process this comment or even think to answer, Severus had turned and slipped away.

Sarah's pride would not let her move until the sound of his footsteps faded. Then she turned back to her sleeping position. But she felt more like weeping than going back to sleep now. She let a few silent drops squeeze out before Madam Pomfrey came to check on her.

"Did he upset you?" the medi-witch asked, then added under her breath, "As if he wouldn't upset anyone."

Sarah swallowed her tears and hardened her soul, and her words came out steady and true. "He only wanted to know how I did in Potions."

"You remember that it's _your_ effort that counts," Pomfrey said. "If you need a Calming Potion, I'll fetch one."

"No, thank you." Sarah let her head sink deeper into the pillow. "I'll be all right."

But she fell asleep wondering which of the possibilities their conversation had promised—a renewed argument or a reconciliation—was the one she really wanted.

* * *

Sarah was grateful to sleep in the following day. But by afternoon she was begging Madam Pomfrey for her Astronomy textbook. _Just to revise a little—I haven't looked at the book in two weeks!_ And Pomfrey, seeing how upset she was, conceded wearily. 

"But I'll confiscate it at ten o'clock promptly. So make good use of your time."

She did, concentrating on the things she was most likely to need and the most likely to have forgotten: star names, formulas. Everything else would have to depend on her memory.

The written exam, on Wednesday morning, was distressingly difficult. She wasn't sure she had applied the right formula to a certain set of questions, and in a few instances, she had completely forgotten the names of the stars she was asked to identify. She glanced with envy at the fifth years, bent over their papers. The O.W.L. had been so much easier in this subject.

The practical was not until after dark, of course. At eleven o'clock, the N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. students trudged up to the top of the Astronomy Tower, were given charts to fill out—of greater number and difficulty for the seventh years—and all fell to silent study of the stars. Again, Sarah found that her memory was failing her, although she thought she was getting enough of them right for a pass, at least.

The exam was nearing its end when Sarah heard Professor Tofty urging concentration in a voice that suggested that a number of people were clearly not concentrating. Sarah was too busy with her charts to take notice. Then, suddenly, the blast from a spell echoed across the grounds.

"No!" a girl near the front of the tower cried. None of the students on that side were looking through their telescopes. Instead they had crowded to the parapet and were staring down at whatever was going on below. The examiners' efforts to urge them back to their places were having no effect.

The sound of angry barking drifted up, and shouts from a deep voice that could only belong to Hagrid, the huge groundskeeper. Apparently, some kind of fight was going on down there. But since the examiners seemed unconcerned (except for the distraction to the students), she doubted it was an attack by Death Eaters. And nothing less was worth worrying about during an exam she was not sure of passing.

Ignoring the sounds as best she could, Sarah kept marking her charts. Then the voice of Professor McGonagall joined in the shouting coming from the grounds and disregarding the situation became impossible. By that time, however, Sarah was far back in the crowd that was trying to peer over the parapet, and she had no hope of seeing what was happening.

Between the shrieking of the students in the front, the gossiping of the students behind, and the exclamations—focused, at last, on the events below—of the examiners, there was no way of telling for certain what was going on. Sarah thought she heard Umbridge shout; naturally _that_ woman would be involved wherever there was trouble.

But then, curiously, silence fell. Was it over, whatever it was? Yes, Professor Tofty was giving the five-minute warning for the end of the exam. Aggravated, Sarah hurried back to her telescope and scribbled in as many answers as she could before the time was up.

It was only in the chatter that broke out as the students put away their telescopes that Sarah finally heard what had happened: Umbridge, with a group of others, had attempted to take Hagrid captive—because of the niffler, several suggested—and Professor McGonagall had been attacked while attempting to help him. Hagrid, apparently, had escaped unharmed.

"Four stunners!" The words were passed from mouth to mouth.

"Did anyone go help her?" Sarah wanted to know. But no one seemed to have the answer.

* * *

The hospital wing was buzzing like an upset hive when Sarah arrived. A couple of sixth year I.S. members—big Slytherin goons—had been injured, as well as three adults she did not know. Umbridge was raging at those who were still conscious, and when she saw Sarah come in, she shouted, "What are you doing out of bed, Miss Darkglass!" Then, without waiting for an answer, ordered, "Don't just stand there—do something to help!" 

Sarah spied Madam Pomfrey down the row of beds, not far from Sarah's own, bending over a figure Sarah recognized. She rushed to Professor McGonagall's side. The old woman looked very pale—even a bit blue around the lips. Sarah had to look carefully to be sure she was still breathing. There was a curiously familiar scent in the air, but Sarah couldn't place it.

"Can I help?" she asked. Pomfrey's assistants were engaged in treating Umbridge's crew, leaving only the young apprentice to aid her.

"I really think I had better contact St. Mungo's," Pomfrey said. "She's too old to endure an attack like this." She shot a dirty look in Umbridge's direction.

Umbridge saw it, and stalked over. "Miss Darkglass has clearly recovered. I require her help over here, since you seem unwilling to render it yourself, Madam Pomfrey."

"Headmistress Umbridge," Pomfrey said sharply, and it was clear that her manner of address was not meant to be respectful, "I have a patient here—a longtime teacher at this school—who is in danger of dying. Your students' injuries are not serious, and my _well-trained_ assistants are tending to your Ministry _friends_. Miss Darkglass _is_ still a patient here. However, for the present distress, she may offer whatever help she chooses." Pomfrey turned her attention back to Professor McGonagall.

"Sarah," Umbridge said imperiously. "As a member of my Inquisitorial Squad, it is your responsibility to assist me in any way possible."

_What does the woman think I can do?_ Sarah wondered. _I'm a potion-maker, not a healer._ No, she did not even care to know what Umbridge wanted. She stood up to her full height and took a deep breath. It seemed odd that she had not done this a long time ago.

"I resign."

"You what?" Umbridge asked, almost lightly, as though she did not believe what she was hearing and was therefore unconcerned about it.

"I said, I resign from the Inquisitorial Squad."

The shift in Umbridge's manner was so abrupt, Sarah would not have been surprised to see smoke come pouring from the woman's ears. "You can't _do_ that!"

"You can't stop me, with all due respect," Sarah pointed out. Not that the headmistress was due much respect. "I have just completed my final N.E.W.T. and there is nothing whatsoever to keep me at Hogwarts. I would prefer to spend the rest of my time here with those who merit my loyalty. Who aren't just using me for their own selfish purposes. People like my Head of House."

Umbridge sputtered. "You...you...I'll never give you approval for that Hogwarts apprenticeship you wanted so badly!"

"That is of no concern to me," Sarah said. It was a lie, but it was one she had been trying convince herself of for two weeks, and she was practiced at it.

"I'll see to it that you will never obtain employment with the Ministry!" Umbridge raged on, her face turning a shade of red that clashed horribly with her pink cardigan.

Sarah could not help laughing—a mocking little laugh that she thought might give the headmistress apoplexy. She hoped it did. "What makes you think that I'll ever have any interest in employment with the Ministry? Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm afraid I don't have my badge on my person, but I'll return it at the earliest opportunity." With that, Sarah turned back to Madam Pomfrey, leaving Umbridge making noises like a kettle boiling over.

"Is there anything I can do for Professor McGonagall?" Sarah asked.

The work over the old woman's body did not seem particularly complex, but without medical training, she couldn't be sure. Pomfrey kept casting Ennervate at frequent intervals. The boy apprentice was applying drops of the potion Sarah had been smelling a minute ago—she recognized it, with a sudden, incongruous pang of memory, as Ignatias Tonic—to McGonagall's lips between Pomfrey's spells.

"Tristan," Pomfrey said. "If Miss Darkglass takes over the potion, can you perform the spell?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. I need to call St. Mungo's on the mirror. They have techniques and potions on hand that are beyond what I can do here." Madam Pomfrey sounded haggard.

Sarah went around the bed and took the bottle and dropper from Tristan, trying not to remember the day she had learned to make this potion. _The touch of her professor's hand on hers. The startled look in his eyes as he realized what he was doing. The shattered vial. The detention._ She drew herself back from the memory with a sharp, deep breath.

"One drop between spells. Try to get it under her tongue, if you can aim that well," the apprentice said dubiously. He took Pomfrey's place on the other side of the bed. Sarah noticed that Umbridge had gone back to cajoling the assistants who were working over her Ministry associates, but when she saw Pomfrey go past her, she followed the medi-witch back into her office. Oh, well. Madam Pomfrey would have to deal with that problem on her own.

"_Ennervate!_" Tristan said, swishing his wand. "Okay, now!"

Sarah discovered that it was a little more tricky to get the medicine into McGonagall's mouth than she had supposed it would be. She had to use a second drop after the first one rolled along to the corner of her lips and leaked out.

"Why is it not doing her any good?" Sarah asked, after three more rounds of spells and potion. McGonagall looked no better than when Sarah had first come in.

"It's bloody well keeping her alive, that's all," Tristan said.

Sarah was glad when Pomfrey returned and she could leave matters in more capable hands.

"St. Mungo's is setting up a special Portkey. The Ministry don't like to breach the wards of Hogwarts, especially after what happened with the Triwizard Cup. We may have to transport her down to the gates if approval can't be got, and we may not be able to do either before dawn."

* * *

Pomfrey's assistants finally managed to revive the Ministry Aurors Umbridge had sent for to help her arrest Hagrid. His escape had enraged the headmistress, and she ranted on for some time, throwing nasty looks in the direction of McGonagall's bed, until at last she gave up and stormed off to bed, leaving instructions for the handful of I.S. members who had come to look in on their friends to wake her if anything important occurred. 

One of the Aurors had sustained a large number of broken bones, and frequently moaned as he was being treated. The other two had been concussed, although one also had a broken leg. Madam Pomfrey had Sarah take another turn tending Professor McGonagall while she checked on her assistants' work with the men—but not, Sarah noted, until after Umbridge had left. Eventually, because she knew the medi-witch would have ordered her to do so if she'd had the time to think of it, Sarah retired to her bed, and to a fitful sleep.

Sarah woke in the pale dawn to see Pomfrey, Severus and Professor Flitwick moving McGonagall onto a stretcher. Only one Auror remained in the hospital wing, along with the two I.S. thugs. All three were sleeping.

Sarah got up. McGonagall still did not look at all well, although it was rapidly apparent that the Ennervation treatments were not being administered quite as often as before, and Pomfrey was dispensing the potion herself.

"What can I do?"

The comment seemed to startle the adults. It was fortunate that McGonagall had been settled on the floating stretcher before their heads all jerked around.

"Nothing, you're a patient again," Pomfrey said, recovering her composure, although the wakeful, worried night she had spent was written all over her.

"Go back to sleep, Miss Darkglass," Severus ordered. "You are still ill and this matter does not concern you."

It occurred to Sarah, with abrupt surprise, that Professor Flitwick might not be on the need-to-know list.

"She is _my_ Head of House!"

"Do not contradict me, Miss Darkglass." His dark eyes fixed on her, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

It was on her lips to say "You can hardly give me a detention now" when she realized that Severus had no time to play verbal games with her.

"Please take good care of her," she said instead, meekly.

"Of course we will," Professor Flitwick chimed in, with the unflappable cheerfulness she remembered from five years of Charms. "Don't worry." She might have believed him if she had not seen the unusual tightness of his face.

Not knowing what else to do, Sarah lay back down, letting them get on with their task. But she could not help thinking, as they moved the stretcher down the room, that it looked disturbingly like a funeral procession.

She buried her face against the pillow. "_Please, no_."

* * *

Sarah slept again, all through the morning light that streamed in the windows, and into the early afternoon. She woke when Tristan brought her a lunch tray. 

"What a night, eh?" he said. "I just woke up myself. Madam Pomfrey's still asleep. 'Spect she'll be up soon."

"Do you think..." it was frightening even to say it. "Will Professor McGonagall be all right?"

Tristan bit his lip, and ran a hand back through his unruly blond hair. "They should be able to do something for her at St. Mungo's. It's just...I've hardly ever seen Madam Pomfrey transfer a patient..."

Sarah looked around. The Slytherins had gone. A screen stood around the bed where the injured Auror had lain. Montague seemed to be working a crossword puzzle, although at the moment he was staring blankly into space. Tristan went back to his other duties, and Sarah began picking at her food.

It was strange to think that she wouldn't be here much longer. Not just in the hospital wing, but at Hogwarts. Having spent three-fourths of every year for the past seven years here made it as much home as anyplace could be. Especially since the place she had called home during those years was no longer open to her. Examinations would be over tomorrow, and a week after that, the students would go home.

_Where will I go?_

It was not, of course, the first time she had thought about it. As she'd had no answers, she had pushed the matter aside. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. And her life had become so tangled up with Severus Snape's that any realistic decision about her future would require his input. Like it or not.

She thought of Miriam's threat to take Sarah home with her. And Miriam was all right. But could she endure living in Caius Snape's household? She was not sure she could.

She hadn't had a chance to check with Gringotts to see whether Franklin Nott had given her the money she had asked for. But she was not sure, even if she took a flat of her own—either in Diagon or Knockturn Alley—that she would dare to live there alone. She would be too vulnerable to any Death Eater who chose to make her life difficult. Perhaps she was better off with the Death Eater she knew. Even if his reasons for protecting her were less noble than she'd thought. But could she live in Severus' tiny flat, still at odds with him?

_How did I ever get into such a mess?_

_

* * *

_By the time Pomfrey appeared on the ward, still tired and worried, Sarah had worked herself up to asking the medi-witch for permission to walk freely about the school. Her exams were over. Hadn't she rested enough? Provided that she still spent most of her time here, how could it hurt her to have a little more freedom? 

Pomfrey conceded. It was obvious that last night had taken a great deal out of her.

Sarah, now at liberty, went up to her dormitory. She had been wearing the same robes—duly and carefully laundered and returned to her each day—for two weeks, and she was tired of them, as well as of the plain, white, infirmary-issue nightgown. And then there was the little matter of her I.S. badge, which she had left pinned inside the sleeve of the robes she had been wearing when she was kidnapped and had not bothered to remove from them when she had changed.

Florence and Patricia were in the common room when Sarah went past, but no one was in their dorm room. Sarah found the silver 'I' pin still fastened to her now-clean robes, and she pocketed it, grateful that she need no longer worry about the Inquisitorial Squad or any of their works. Then she chose some casual clothes, underthings and another set of robes (_not_ the ones she had worn to the Notts'). She stowed the rest of her possessions in her trunk and locked it. She would be leaving soon and not coming back.

She made a brief stop in the library on her way back. Only a few determined souls were still studying. The small fiction section—which Madam Pince kept under protest—had been largely depleted by those who, like Sarah, enjoyed reading, now that their textbooks were no longer the order of the day. But Sarah snagged an interesting title she couldn't remember reading before—_Under the Moonlight_ by Hannah Hannigan—as well as an old favorite, _Careers in Potions_. She thought there had been some information on foreign careers, although she had never read that part with much interest before.

She organized her few belongings on her bedside table in the hospital wing. She wasn't ready yet to go looking for Umbridge, no matter how eager she was rid herself of the silver badge. She was torn between going out by the lake or staying inside, between trying to make some decisions about her future and letting herself be whisked away by someone else's griefs and delights. Ultimately, she decided on the latter, in both cases. She curled up with _Under the Moonlight_ and proceeded to while away her afternoon.

She didn't think too much about it at first when, as she returned from the bathroom later in the day, she saw Harry Potter striding out of the ward. Not that there was anyone here the boy would want to see, she thought, puzzled, taking in both the screened Auror and Montague, whom Madam Pomfrey had just finished dosing with one of the many potions he took each day.

"He was looking for Professor McGonagall," Pomfrey commented, noticing Sarah's expression. "I hope everyone in the school finds out about this incident. Perhaps if more parents were aware of our new headmistress's behavior, they might bring pressure to bear on the Ministry. I don't know how we can go on like this..."

Potter, looking for McGonagall...that wasn't terribly unusual. She was his Head of House, too, after all, and he was a fifth year, so he'd probably seen what had happened to her, from up on the tower last night. Still, he'd taken his own sweet time about coming to see her. Sarah sighed and settled back onto her bed. She'd had no great affection for the boy, not after the incident with the Pensieve, back before Easter, although that had been for Severus' sake. Now she didn't know whether to sustain her annoyance at Potter or to believe in his role as potential defeater of the Dark Lord.

Well, if the matter had been important, he would have said so to Madam Pomfrey.

A short time later, Tristan brought Sarah's dinner tray. Surprisingly, she was actually hungry, for the first time in weeks. Thank goodness exams were over! She finished her meal with gusto, and had just picked up her book again when she felt a curious tingling against her side.

_Oh! The I.S. badge_. Undoubtedly yet another student-inflicted emergency for Umbridge to deal with. Smiling—both at woman's difficulties and the happy memory of her own resignation—Sarah lowered her eyes to her book and went on reading.

* * *

**A/N:** "Under the Moonlight" (by cecelle) is a Marauders/Snape one-shot which bears no resemblance whatever to Sarah's romance novel. Hannah Hannigan—whose designation as a writer _is_ in character for her—is Snape's leading lady in cecelle's novel-length (nearing completion!) "Mist and Vapor." 

Next chapter—more Snape, more action and some long-delayed (and sadly misshapen) lemons! The next chapter _will_ be out sooner.


	45. Ch 44: Gossip's Worth Its Weight in Gold

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Yada yada. You know the drill.

**A/N:** I'm back from our Thankgiving trip. We had a wonderful time with old friends, and the best part was getting to talk about Harry Potter for days on end!

And now for the recurring reviewer roll call: Darla, Scriptor Alania, kokopoko, Lila Demetra, Lady Whitehart, Sarah T, cecelle, Kazza, whitehound, TessaCilory, AlanaRose12, Bellegeste, lucidity, BradyB66 and Aiden2—you are all super-great readers and I love your input! And a special thanks once again to cecelle, who's been helping to make sure these chapters are what they should be before you all see them.

I need to mention that ffnet has a new review reply system, and all individual replies to reviews in the author notes are now forbidden. So unless you are registered, I will not be able to reply to your review. Just so you know.

And now, the reconciliation. Ironically, courtesy of one Harry Potter. Lemons ahead—but be warned: they've been described as "cute."

* * *

**Chapter 44: Gossip's Worth Its Weight in Gold**

"Madam Pomfrey!"

The double doors of the hospital wing burst open, and a small knot of I.S. members stumbled in, led by a fifth year Slytherin girl whom Sarah recognized as Harriet Bulstrode's little sister Millicent. She was supporting an unconscious, levitated, thick-set boy—one of the goons that habitually hung around with Draco Malfoy, although Sarah had never bothered to sort out which was Crabbe and which was Goyle. Close behind was Draco Malfoy himself, squealing like a girl as he tore at several great flapping shapes that seemed to be attached to his face. Bringing up the rear was Daisy Grimes, a sixth year Slytherin who could not have looked less like her name. She was pushing along Corvus Warrington, likewise unconscious.

"What on earth?" Pomfrey said, coming out from behind the Auror's screen.

"We were attacked by Gryffindors!" Millicent complained.

Madam Pomfrey did not comment on that accusation as she helped settle the two unconscious boys onto beds. Then, with a quick flick of her wand, she cast the countercurse on Draco. Immediately, the flapping things disappeared, although now his face was covered with a slime that looked suspiciously like snot. Pomfrey handed him a cloth, which he used gingerly to wipe it off. With the bogeys gone, it was evident that his face was scratched up, whether from the flapping things or from his own fingernails, it was hard to say.

"What are you staring at, Darkglass?" Malfoy sneered, although the effect was rather lost due to the flush of embarrassment on his face.

"Just wondering who managed to rough up a bunch of big, tough I.S.ers," Sarah said mockingly. "Some first years this time?"

"It was Potter's stupid friends," Draco answered. "Umbridge caught him sneaking into her office, using the fireplace to try to talk to Dumbledore."

Suddenly, something clicked in Sarah's head. Potter had been trying to find McGonagall, and then he had resorted to an act he _had_ to have known was desperately foolish to reach Dumbledore. With the instinct of someone who had, herself, lately been without help, Sarah realized that something must be wrong. Very, very wrong.

"So what happened? Wasn't Umbridge able to protect her ickle I.S.ers?" Sarah asked, trying to keep her voice mocking, so as not to betray the importance of the information to her.

Draco reached for his wand...which clearly wasn't there. He stared at Sarah's drawn wand with a bizarre mixture of terror and contempt, his eyes darting to find Madam Pomfrey. Sarah kept her own eyes steady, not willing to be tricked or distracted; Draco obviously did not find the help that he expected.

"What do you care?" he said.

"Just curious," Sarah said. "I thought it might be useful to be able to report on what Umbridge has been doing to Potter to...certain people. I might even mention your name. Although I'd omit the circumstances." She forced a smirk; it was more difficult than she thought, with a sensation like ice condensing in the marrow of her bones.

Draco's eyes narrowed, but he said, "Umbridge took Potter and Granger into the Forbidden Forest. Supposedly old Dumb-dumb's had them building some kind of weapon to use against the Ministry."

Sarah blinked. This was the first she'd heard of a weapon. "Surely you're not that stupid, Malfoy," she said. "Why would Dumbledore bother with attacking the _Ministry?_"

Draco paled slightly, the scratches standing out even redder on his face.

Sarah got up.

"Where are _you_ going?" Draco asked of her back. She did not bother to answer.

* * *

Sarah tried to break into a run as the double doors of the hospital wing closed behind her but found it impossible to sustain for more than a few steps. Damn it, her sides and back hurt! She settled for a brisk walk, praying it didn't look too much like a waddle. 

It was dinnertime. Which meant that Severus would be in the Great Hall. Damn! But she had no choice. This wouldn't wait. Something needed Dumbledore's attention—or at least Potter had desperately believed so. And there was no knowing what Umbridge might do to Potter out there. As little as Sarah liked the boy, she was gripped with a grudging conviction that Potter was likely to be the key to the Dark Lord's defeat.

_I'm just delivering a message_, she told herself, trying to put on the proper expression for the event. _There's no reason for anyone to suppose otherwise_.

At least she would not walk down the whole length of the Great Hall under everyone's eyes. Instead she made her way around to where the staff entrance was supposed to be and, feeling as if she were trespassing on forbidden territory, she slipped inside.

She was in a cozy chamber lined with portraits of witches and wizards—likely staff members of years gone by. "You're not supposed to be in here," a sharp-faced witch commented.

"I have a message for Professor Snape," Sarah answered. The witch turned up her nose, but made no further protest as Sarah crossed the room to the door on the other side and opened it hesitantly.

Looking out on the Great Hall from this perspective was a curious sensation. With Umbridge, McGonagall and Hagrid missing, it was easy to both see and be seen, and several students near the front had caught a glimpse of a seventh year Gryffindor student behind the staff table. Not waiting for their puzzled stares to attract more attention, Sarah stepped quickly over to where Severus was stabbing at the remains of a steak and kidney pie.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, the moment he became aware of her. His expression, predictably, was furious. If she had been there on her own behalf, she would have turned around and left without another word.

"It's Potter," she whispered back urgently. A few of the other teachers turned their heads.

"I am aware of the situation," Severus growled under his breath.

Sarah felt stymied. If her news was no news at all, then why hadn't Draco mentioned the fact that his Head of House knew what was going on? Was Severus actually willing to let Umbridge inflict whatever she liked on the boy? From what Sarah had heard and seen during her months in the I.S., Umbridge's hatred of Potter rivaled even Severus's. Anything could happen out there, and the woman could tell whatever story she liked—no one would ever know the truth. "You know that Umbridge has taken him into the Forbidden Forest?"

His sudden, sharp glance made it clear that this, at least, was news to him.

"Into the staff chamber," he ordered in harsh whisper.

Sarah retreated with as much speed and grace as she could manage, leaving whatever rumors her appearance had occasioned to foment in her wake.

* * *

"Now what's this?" Severus asked bluntly, as he pulled the door closed behind him. He waved his wand, and all the portraits hazed over with a grey film that sent their subjects feeling around the edges of their frames in silent irritation; he was taking no chances that their conversation might be repeated as portrait gossip. 

Sarah gave a rapid account of what Draco Malfoy had told her.

"Damn," he spat. "A weapon, you say?"

"Do you know anything about it?" Sarah asked, still perplexed.

"Nothing whatsoever. Which means that it does not exist. Nor can I imagine why Potter would come up with such a tale, unless he thought that luring Umbridge into the forest would serve some purpose." Severus was pacing. He sneered, "It would be like him to think he could overpower an experienced witch, once he had her alone."

"But why was he trying to contact Dumbledore?" Sarah's conviction that something had gone badly wrong was still with her.

"Because he is convinced that his godfather is being held prisoner by the Dark Lord." There was something about Severus's expression that suggested he would be just as happy if it were true. It was enough to prompt Sarah to probe further.

"Well, _could_ he be?" she asked, a trace of exasperation in her voice. She'd never so much as heard that Harry Potter had a godfather and hadn't the faintest idea who the man might be.

"No," Severus said, still grimacing. "He could not. I exchanged messages with him not half an hour ago." He shook his head. "If Potter had come to me first, all of this could have been avoided. Instead, the foolish boy made a rather lame attempt to communicate the nature of his fears to me under Umbridge's very nose, where I could do nothing." He looked hard at Sarah. "I assume you still have the Veritaserum in your trunk?"

"Yes. Why?" Although she deduced the answer, almost before the question left her mouth.

"She called me to her office after she caught Potter invading it. She wanted to interrogate him again. And of course she was not pleased when I told her I had no more Veritaserum prepared. The idiotic woman had used the entire bottle the first time." He sniffed.

Sarah drew a sharp breath. If it had really been Veritaserum, Potter might have gone into a catatonic state and never have recovered. "She _is_ trying to kill him!"

"Hardly," Severus said dismissively. "What she doesn't know about Potions could fill several dozen libraries. She is merely stupid, not murderous. And while I don't doubt Potter's life will be made unpleasant for a while, particularly when she learns he's been lying to her, being kept out of trouble for the duration can only be a benefit to him."

Sarah frowned, not convinced. "She's a _horrible_ woman."

"Well, I won't disagree with that." Noting her surprise, Severus went on, with sour weariness, "It seems altogether possible, assuming that Dolores Umbridge continues as headmistress next year, I shall be dismissed from my position. As I told you, she wasn't very pleased with me. She made a particular point of bringing up my probation."

In front of Potter. And—she realized—in front of Draco.

"What would happen then?" Sarah asked anxiously. The Dark Lord had warned them all, already, not to jeopardize his chief spy's position. But if Draco told his father that Snape had risked being discharged in order to protect Potter from Umbridge...assuming the boy had the intelligence to read the situation that way...and even if he didn't, the fact that Snape had contributed to his own sacking...no, that was not good at all.

"I will think of something," Severus snapped. "Without Dumbledore here, there is less information of value for me to carry. I am certain I can convince the Dark Lord that my position at Hogwarts is no longer essential. And you needn't fear that I will leave you without support." He sent a sneering glance at Sarah.

"I never asked..." she burst out, then stopped. How had this become a renewal of their own argument? She had not been thinking of the situation between them when she went looking for Severus—he was simply the only person remaining at Hogwarts who might know what to do.

"It was not necessary for you to _ask_." There was more than a little bitterness in his voice. Even a hint of pain. Which was, perhaps, the saving grace of his words.

He had never asked her for so much as a Knut, she realized. He had, in fact, provided for her out of his meager savings since Easter, without complaint. It was her own guilt at having nothing to contribute that had driven her to insist that Franklin Nott give her money. No matter how she had tried to fool herself into believing she could make a life for herself and her child with her potion-making skills, the truth was that her entanglement in the Dark Lord's web—not even to mention Bellatrix Lestrange's plans—limited her options severely. The idea that Severus would support her, possibly even try to protect her, regardless of their estrangement, was like finding a handhold on a cliff, a dangling rope at the bottom of a well.

"I said before that I was wrong." She glanced away, unwilling to see his expression take on smugness. "It was just so horrible to think that...that you cared as little for me as...as that."

"I told you before—if that had been _all_ I wanted, I could have had my revenge on the manipulative, eager little chits in my House a dozen times over."

It was, of course, true. She should have realized that before...

He went on sharply, "You realize, I hope, that this is not an appropriate place to discuss the situation between us. It is, however," he added, as she looked up in annoyance at being put off once more, "necessary that we do so. Will my quarters suffice? Or do I need to find a location more...acceptable to you?"

She answered his sneer by pulling out her ring on its chain. It had been a kind of self-imposed penance, continuing to wear it, feeling its weight between her breasts as a punishment for her foolish choices. But now, with a cold lump in her throat, she slipped it onto her finger and waited, looking at him expectantly.

"I can't afford to disappear from this room," he said, his voice harder than his eyes. "There will be students waiting to see me outside. I will come as soon as possible."

Sarah nodded a fraction. Then she turned the ring. _One. Two. Three_...

* * *

She was so tired, it was tempting to just lie there on the bed, even go to sleep. It was also tempting, she discovered as she looked at the familiar surroundings, to slip off her clothes and slip under the covers and pretend they'd never quarreled at all. At first she'd been too angry to care, but now...it had been so long. Reading novels was no help whatsoever. And there wasn't enough privacy in the hospital wing for her to dare to try out some other method of relief. 

But her damnable pride wouldn't let her sink that far: revealing such obvious desperation. He was more than likely to sneer at her and say something vicious. She didn't want to think about how he might have been relieving his own desires in the meanwhile.

So she paced the floor. _Do I really want a reconciliation?_ she thought scornfully. _Or just a quick bang?_

No, she'd missed him in more than her bed. She'd missed him at her elbow as she made potions. She'd missed the idea that she had a family of her own choosing. The idea that she mattered to someone. She _wanted_ to forgive him now, although she still wasn't sure how to convince herself of that entirely.

And was there even the possibility of a reconciliation? Or had his own pride suffered too much damage for that? Was it not more likely that he wanted to discuss the terms of their estrangement?

She startled when the doorway into his workroom appeared in the solid wall and he came through it.

"We have much to discuss, Sarah. Sit down."

Sarah glanced at the little table by the fireside. It suggested negotiations, contracts, signatures and fare-you-well. She sat, quite deliberately, on the edge of the bed, folded her hands in what little remained of her lap, and looked up at him with greater calmness than she felt.

His eyes betrayed his consternation. "What are you playing at?" he snapped. "I won't tolerate acting and deceit from you, not now!"

Chagrined, Sarah breathed out—half-sigh, half-sob—and let her countenance show what it would. "I'm not trying to deceive you!"

Still studying her suspiciously, he began what was clearly a prepared speech. "You will not be able to remain at Hogwarts after the end of next week. As distressing to you as the fact may be, the safest place for you is Knockturn Alley. There is," he added, quietly and with some obvious distaste, "the refuge I mentioned to you earlier, at Easter. But Miriam would not be able to come to you there."

Sarah had already come to this conclusion herself. "I'll go to your flat."

Her agreement did not appear to improve his temper. "A flat with _me_ in it?" he asked snidely. "Although I could, theoretically, strengthen the wards for you and remain here at Hogwarts for the summer." _If he wasn't sacked_.

"It is _your_ flat," she pointed out coldly. And winced. She had not meant it quite that way.

"I will not tolerate quarreling with you all summer, Sarah!"

"I don't want to quarrel. I..." She bit her lip. "I didn't want to quarrel then. But you left me there to be tormented and threatened with rape and..." her voice broke.

"_I had no choice!_"

"I know that! But I was terrified. And that made it easier to believe that they might be right. And they _were_ right, weren't they? In part, at least."

"I told you—" he said heatedly.

"I know! And I _believe_ you—that that wasn't all there was to it. I want to _forgive_ you, damn it! I want to. It's just that...it's hard to think of it even being a part of what you thought. It's just so...so _sordid_."

"_Sordid, _Sarah?" His face shifted, as it always had so easily, between anger and sarcasm. "Is there any part of our relationship that has _not_ been sordid? Did you not think it _sordid_ to come down to the dungeon that night?"

It was probably fair enough that the taint she had tried to throw over his actions could spread out to include her own, but it was not a pleasant thing to feel seeping it into her, reviving her guilt like some noxious plant feeding anew on corruption. She looked away, whispering, "I didn't think of it like that." Such a perfect opportunity she was giving him to accuse her again of stupidity! Louder, she added bitterly, "Maybe I should have."

"Undoubtedly. But you did not. And now we are in the situation which resulted."

She swung her head back around. "You are as responsible for your choices as I am for mine!"

"Don't presume lecture me on my responsibilities, Sarah! I am perfectly aware of them." He grimaced, looking anywhere but at her.

"Is that all I am to you now?" she asked bitterly. "A responsibility?"

"And what am I to you?" he returned, fixing her with an equally bitter gaze. "I _shall_ achieve my ambitions—I have never required the power of your name for that, so don't flatter yourself. But you are _mine_, Sarah." There was a fierceness in his eyes, as he stepped nearer to her, and the threat of physical possession was almost palpable. "I could force you to accept that. Custom, law and magic are on my side. But..." he drew a bitter breath. "I cannot value what should be—what has been—freely given, if it now must be taken."

Sarah's heart was pounding. A few minutes ago, she had wanted to be his in the most intimate sense. But she knew that he was not referring to that...or not only to that. Even had she not grown up seeing it firsthand, she would have learned in the past six months what it meant to be the wife of such a man: to be...something more than a possession, yes, but a possession, too, all the same. The last three weeks had been a taste of freedom, although she had not recognized it as such until this moment.

But his intent gaze affirmed his last words: a genuine—if resentful—unwillingness to force those invisible chains back on her soul.

Her pride wanted at least a parting shot. "You didn't give me any choice about marrying you."

His eyes flashed. "Do you regret it now?"

She had every reason to.

"No," she said. "I don't."

A life without Severus Snape—the life she had once envisioned: an ordinary apprenticeship, an ordinary job, an ordinary (pleasant young) husband—despite its apparent offer of happiness, seemed...all wrong. Which made no sense. Certainly life with him promised very little of any obvious happiness. But it was what she wanted, right or wrong, regrets or no regrets. And his damnable motives...okay, they hurt. But she had no choice but to put up with that, if she wanted the rest. There was only so much further away she could push him, she sensed uneasily, before he would refuse to come back.

Even now, he seemed unwilling to believe what he had heard.

"No regrets?" he asked, with brutal sarcasm.

"I didn't say that," she snapped back. "I said I didn't regret marrying you."

He opened his mouth, as if poised to accuse her of some execrable motive of her own for marrying him, but either he could not find one or else he thought better of it. "If we are to remain together," he said, "you are not to say another word about my motives. Ever."

His motives for seducing her? Or for marrying her? Or—more likely—his motives for anything at all. Unquestioning acquiescence—damn it, he still _wanted_ to control her! But what else could she expect? "I will never say another word about your reasons for...for our relationship. Ever."

He grimaced slightly, as if he had not won all he intended. He turned, as if to begin pacing again. "So, you will live in my flat for the summer. After that..."

"I won't go to Bella," Sarah broke in. "Can't we...can't we _leave?_ Leave Britain, I mean?"

He looked at her sharply, his distress and displeasure ill-concealed. "If you wish to leave, that can be arranged, although your flight would be very difficult to explain to the Dark Lord at this point. Perhaps we could feign your death—even place the blame on Bellatrix, if that can be managed."

"I want you to come _with_ me." She brought her hands together almost unconsciously in a gesture of pleading.

"No." His eyes turned even harder, glittering like obsidian. "I have duties here, and a role no one else is capable of filling. I will not leave Britain until this matter is finished."

"Then I won't leave either," Sarah averred. "But...what do we do with...with Severian?"

Severus's taut expression softened into mere worry, and his eyes strayed downward to her invisibly burgeoning abdomen. "He is well?"

Sarah could tell, from the way he said it, how difficult that question had been to hold back.

Recently, truth to tell, she had been trying hard to tune out those subtle movements most of the time, not wanting the constant reminder of the difficulties posed by Severian's existence. But it was impossible—especially when he seemed to be turning somersaults in her womb—never to take notice.

"Yes," she whispered. The sound of his parents' voices speaking together seemed to have woken him up, and he had been kicking tentatively for several minutes. But for the moment he was quiet again. Did he sense the danger they were all in? Sarah tried to smile reassuringly, but a smile would not come, and her hands went of their own volition to cradle her son protectively. "Is there any way to hide him from the Dark Lord? Now that other Death Eaters know?"

There was agony in the answer. "I don't know. I still believe that the knowledge of our marriage, certainly the knowledge of our child's existence, would force the Dark Lord to accept me as your mentor permanently, despite Bellatrix's machinations. But what he will choose to do with that information is...some of the possibilities are...unthinkable. He still does not trust me entirely. At the very least, Severian will be a hostage—in intention, if not in physical fact—and the Dark Lord will insist on knowing his whereabouts at all times."

Sarah had known all this before, but now it seemed to lock tight iron bands around her heart. "If that happens, I want to keep him with me. I can stay in Knockturn Alley—"

"We've discussed this before," Severus interrupted, frowning more deeply.

"Umbridge told me that she wouldn't allow me to take the Hogwarts apprenticeship. I defied her: I quit the Inquisitorial Squad."

"You _what?_"

"I couldn't bear it any longer. Not with Professor McGonagall lying there _dying_ because of that woman."

"Have you learned _nothing!_" It hadn't been clear how much he had calmed down until he became outraged again. "You can't afford such sentimental nonsense! If the Dark Lord—"

"Dolores Umbridge is not the Dark Lord!" Sarah interrupted in returned. "You defied her yourself!"

"Not so openly! If she's reporting to the Dark Lord—"

The realization—mainly that she had not considered that before—chilled her, but she said, "I thought we had decided that was unlikely?"

"Unlikely but not impossible. You must assume that anyone could be a spy. Did you reject the woman for the fool she is, or did you express loyalty to McGonagall?"

Sarah shut her eyes, her heart dropping precipitously. "Both. But only as my Head of House," she added in haste. "I'm not _that_ stupid."

"It was a mistake we can't afford!" Severus was pacing again.

"I won't repeat it," she said shakily.

"You're very fortunate that it _is_ unlikely she's more than just the Ministry's spy." Slightly calmer, he went on, "Umbridge's opinion about your apprenticeship will matter very little if the Dark Lord is determined you should have it. Pressure will be exerted—"

"Sufficient pressure to keep her from sacking you?" Sarah asked. "I thought you said it was no longer so important you remain at Hogwarts?"

"The alternative is likely to be waiting full time upon the Dark Lord. Making potions to suit his purposes, while I train you to do the same. Are you prepared to face that?"

It was a terrible thing to imagine—being so often in that monster's presence, and knowing that almost every potion one made would be used to cause harm to the innocent. From the expression on his face, Severus liked the idea as little as she did. And yet...

"If that's what it takes to keep Severian with me."

"You cannot afford such thinking, Sarah! If you reveal how much you care for the child, you only hand the Dark Lord another reason to harm him! Do you suppose that I want him to believe for a moment that you mean anything more to me than the carnal pleasure of having a beautiful young woman in my bed?" His lips twitched, and she could feel his eyes appraising her. It was, contrary to what he might have intended, a pleasant sensation. "The child he may understand as the others understand it. But even that is too much...too much of value to me for him not to hold it as a threat over my head." His frown was grave. "If there is any way to avoid revealing our child's existence, we must take it. And that may very well mean a separation from him, brief or long."

Sarah looked away, trying to hide her own distress. But suddenly Severus stepped toward her and forced her chin up to face him again with one strong hand.

"You must accept my judgment in this." His expression was firm, his eyes demanding.

Tears started in her eyes. She blinked them back, only to find them laced through her voice. "There was never any way for me to have both of you, was there?"

"No, there was not." The answer was impatient, not sympathetic, and he let her go. "You've known from the very beginning that any apprenticeship you took would necessitate a separation. Why does this upset you now?"

There were no words to explain to him the difference between the mere idea of a child and reality of one living and moving, even now, inside her. "I accept it," she said finally. "I just don't like it."

He seemed poised to respond with some snarky remark about not having what they liked—it was distressingly amusing that she could predict him so well—but instead, he slipped his arms around her shoulders and pressed her to him awkwardly: her face was only at the level of his stomach. In remedy, he went to his knees, just as she reached put her own arms around him.

Had she ever missed anything so keenly as his embrace? The pain of missing it was like a knife that could only cut her when it was back in her hands. Desperate to hold him as close as possible, she splayed her knees...

Her invisible stomach proved to be almost as much of a barrier.

His hands slid from her back to her stomach, studying the shape. His dark eyes were wide, his expression wavering between wonder and a frown.

Sarah drew her own hands back and fumbled at the illusion belt, unfastening it and pulling it off.

"It's only been three weeks," Severus said in a stunned whisper.

"I know." An upsetting thought occurred to her. "Do you not want to..."

His answer was a kiss, an even sharper pleasure than his embrace.

Everything after that, for a time, was an awkward scuffle. It ended with them both on the bed, partly unclothed, frantically aroused, and glaring resentfully at the bump that signified the child they had made together, and who now seemed determined to prevent his parents from engaging in similar activities. Obviously the situation required more creativity than they were accustomed to applying.

They hovered on the edge of another squabble, trying to sort it out.

The ultimate solution threatened to be vaguely degrading, but Sarah was beyond caring very much. It was also, she eventually decided, trying not to eat the pillow she had pulled to her chest for support, decidedly naughty. Which might have contributed to the fact that it was over much too quickly, with Severus muttering curses and apologies with what little breath he had left.

"That good?" she giggled.  
"You've no idea."

"I have _some_. I'd like more."

"It'll only be a minute, I'm sure. You don't know how I've missed you."

* * *

**A/N:** So, they're back together. Enjoying themselves while Harry gets himself deeper and deeper into trouble... 

A few words on the I.S. members that appear at the beginning of the chapter. We know that Warrington's first initial is C, so I extrapolated a Slytherin-ish name for him. We also know that an unnamed sixth year girl was among the captors, and I've given her a name as well. I also made the various I.S. members the victims of the curses that Ron describes to Harry when he tells about their escape—the only canon assignment is Draco, who was hit with Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex.

The staff chamber through which Sarah enters is not the "staff room." We know that the room the champions wait in after being chosen in GoF is off the Great Hall, and I always had the impression (wrong maybe) that the door to it was behind the staff table, so that's the room I've used, just as it's described in GoF.

The effects of too much Veritaserum are purely my own extrapolation. But considering that only three drops has such a powerful effect, it does seem as if giving someone a whole bottle would be a bad idea.


	46. Ch 45: Anywhere You Go Let Me Go Too

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** No, Santa Claus didn't give me the copyright to Harry Potter as a Christmas gift, alas. I only do this for fun. No profit involved, no harm intended.

**A/N:** I'm very, very, _very, very, **very**_ sorry this chapter has taken so long to arrive! Christmas preparations have trumped everything else. But I've promised myself lots of time for writing this week.

Many thanks to faithful reviewers kokopoko, morwen24, cecelle, whitehound, BradyB66, Aiden2, lucidity, AlanaRose12, Lady Whitehart, Jenni Lecil, Lila Demetra, Darla, Samantha-Ives and Bellegeste. And a big welcome to my newest readers: Bailey, Salienne de Lioncourt and Ray Dragon. And huge hugs to cecelle and Lady Whitehart for having a look at this chapter in advance and offering their sage advice.

This week marks the first anniversary of my involvement in HP fan-fiction. I had a weird dream about Snape that produced a story idea—the one you're reading now—and I started reading fan-fiction in hopes of getting it out of my system: a desperate (and clearly futile) attempt to avoid having to write it. I've read some great stories and made some great friends. I just hope you are all as glad I wandered into this as I am.

* * *

**Chapter 45: Anywhere You Go Let Me Go Too**

They drowsed, curled together, until well after midnight.

It was an uneasy dream and a squished bladder that drove Sarah out of bed. With a whispered "just the bathroom" to answer her bedmate's stirring, she felt around for her robe and shoes, slipping them on against the chill, making her way by the faintest wand light. _Madam Pomfrey will wonder where I am_, she thought sleepily, as she finished necessities. Then suddenly another thought brought her wide awake.

_Potter!_ She had forgotten all about him. Of course, chances were that Severus was right. She forced herself to take as deep a breath as possible (no mean feat, anymore), trying to slow the frantic pounding of her heart. Likely the boy was sound asleep, if he could sleep well after whatever discipline Umbridge had applied.

Assuming he had ever come back from the Forest...

_No, that's foolishness_, she chided herself.

_But Severus hates the boy. You know that. How can he possibly make a fair evaluation of the situation? How can he be sure what Umbridge is capable of?_

_It's the middle of the night_, she complained to herself.

But now that the idea had taken hold, Sarah knew she could not go back to sleep without knowing for certain.

She adjusted her robes until she was fit to be seen. Well, decent at least. The illusion belt was somewhere on the bed, but she was afraid of waking Severus entirely if she went looking for it. He would almost certainly refuse to countenance her late night jaunt. She cast the muffling spell across the bathroom doorway. Then, hoping that everyone in her dormitory would be deeply enough asleep not to notice the pop of the Portkey transfer (and having no other choice, whether they did or not), she sat on the toilet seat and slipped on her ring.

As she landed on her own bed, she drew out her wand, prepared to Stupefy her dorm mates, if necessary. There was a grunt from across the room, and Florence turned over, settling immediately back into silence. Otherwise, nothing. After waiting several minutes to be sure, she stood up and began creeping toward the door.

"Sarah?"

She almost proved that wizards could fly without supplementary means. But there was no point in hexing Angelina—she knew about the Portkey already.

"What are you doing?" the other girl whispered blearily. "I thought you were still sleeping in the hospital wing?"

"I am. I just had to get something. Don't worry about it," she reassured her dorm mate, her heart still jumping up and down in her throat.

"Sarah?" Angelina raised herself onto her elbows, and her voice took on a note of astonishment. "Are you...?"

With dismay, Sarah realized that the faint silvery glow of the nightlights was probably adequate—if one saw her from the side, as Angelina had just done—to reveal her condition.

"_Please_ don't tell anyone!" Sarah whispered desperately, slipping over to Angelina's bed to avoid the disaster of waking anyone else. "I've been counting on you all year. Please don't let me down now!"

"Of course not, but...isn't this awful? I mean, you broke up and..."

"I hope not. I really hope not." The longer this conversation went on, the more likely it was that someone else would wake up and hear it. And see her. "Look, I'll tell you more later, but I really need to get back to the hospital wing before I get in trouble."

"Okay," the other girl said uncertainly. "Be careful, Sarah."

"Believe me, I will."

_Severus is going to kill me. If Pomfrey doesn't first_.

But there was no point in turning back now.

Several trembling breaths later, and two flights down, Sarah poked her head into the fifth year girls' dormitory. Potter's friend, Hermione Granger, had reportedly been taken into the forest by Umbridge as well. Sarah saw four soundly sleeping girls and an empty bed. It was not a promising beginning to her search.

The common room was empty, and she hurried, as quickly as she was able, up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. She was out of breath again by the time she reached the fifth years' room: three weeks in bed had not helped her stamina in the least. Nor did the fear of being discovered by anyone else.

What she saw when she peered into the fifth year boys' chamber was positively alarming. Three empty beds, and two boys—neither of whom was Harry Potter—who sat up in bed immediately when she opened the door.

"Harry?" asked a sandy-haired boy. He blinked in surprise. "Who er you?

"I'm looking for Harry Potter," Sarah answered, hanging carefully back behind the door.

"He wasn't at dinner," said the other boy, his dark face set in a worried frown. "Ron or Neville either."

"We ain't seen any of them since the History of Magic O.W.L., after Harry up and fainted," the first boy said.

"You're not a prefect," the dark boy pointed out.

"Nevermind," Sarah answered, and shut the door.

Partway down the second flight, she sat down on the steps and used her ring.

* * *

"Severus!" Sarah reached out for some part of him to shake the moment she reappeared.

She needn't have bothered. He jerked upright, his wand in his hand; it was probably only the fact that she'd spoken that prevented her from being hexed instantly.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snapped, lowering his wand. "I heard—"

"It's Potter!"

"_What?_" Severus growled, reacting with instant antipathy to the hated name.

"He never came back from the Forbidden Forest. Neither did Granger. And his other friends are missing, too—Ron Weasley and that Neville-somebody." She called up the torches to a faint glow.

"Longbottom," he spat. "What are you talking about? How could you know—?"

"I went to check—"

"You _what?_"

"When I woke up...I realized...well..." How could she explain something so utterly illogical to this man? "I knew I couldn't get back to sleep thinking about it. So I went up to check. And they weren't in their beds. Potter's dorm mates hadn't seen any of them since before dinner."

"Damn it, in the middle of the night!" Sarah wasn't sure if he was angriest at her or at Potter. But he got up and began throwing his clothes on.

"Umbridge probably _has_ killed him out there," she said, unable to resist vindicating herself.

"Along with the whole lot of them?" he asked sarcastically. "Good riddance, then." He threw his cloak around him.

"You can't mean that!" She spied the illusion belt under a fold of the eiderdown and snagged it. But hoping that he wouldn't notice was like hoping Umbridge would start handing out sweets.

"You went upstairs without—"

"Yes!" she confessed, not able to think of any acceptable excuse to give for herself.

"Were you seen?"

"That's hardly important right now, is it?" She fastened the belt around her.

"You _were_ seen! You foolish little—" His voice was like a razor.

"It wasn't anyone important! And it was dark. Where are we going?" He had moved to the portrait door, and she followed.

"_You_ are not going anywhere!"

"I'm safe to be seen now."

"Not with me."

"If anyone sees us, you can pretend you've caught me out after curfew. It's not as if Gryffindor has many more points to lose."

Whether it was the tempting prospect of draining Gryffindor of every last point it had, or an unwillingness to argue further, he opened the portrait door and climbed out into the narrow hallway.

"Where are we going?" She stumbled out after.

"_I_ am going to Umbridge's office," he snapped. "_You_ will return to the hospital wing."

"You think Umbridge'll just be sitting there gloating?" she gasped.

"It's possible. If she's there at all."

"You don't think...Potter could have..." She was running out of breath, trying to keep pace with him as he went up the stairs.

"As loathsome as it is to admit, the boy has proved to be annoyingly resourceful. With the help of his friends, and the assistance of Umbridge's own stupidity, she might have been overpowered."

"But why...wouldn't they...come back...for their...things? Unless they...killed her?" It seemed highly doubtful that even a group of fifth years could manage that, except by accident.

"We could hardly be that fortunate," Severus sneered. "To have two of our problems solved at once."

"You want Potter...to go to Azkaban!" she managed in two furious breaths.

"At least he couldn't escape from there."

"Escape? You mean..." The idea that must have occurred to Severus immediately, finally occurred to her. "He might have gone...to help his godfather?"

"The Dark Lord has been attempting to lure Potter out of school for months." They had reached the landing, but Severus paused before he opened the secret door. "I have not been privy to the details of the plan, but I have reason to believe that a group of Death Eaters has been organized for the purpose of capturing him, should the Dark Lord succeed in doing so. Dumbledore believed the danger was minimal," Severus spoke the word disdainfully, "until the summer. He discounts the boy's ability to override all attempts to protect him."

Sarah's breath was coming back. "How could he go anywhere?" Fifth years couldn't Apparate, and Portkey spells were well above N.E.W.T. level. There was the Knight Bus, but Potter would have to do some awfully quick talking to convince the conductor to allow a student—let alone a group of students—on board before the term was over. On the other hand, if he made it as far as Hogsmeade, it was possible, she supposed, to break into a house and use the Floo or steal a broom.

"I have no idea," Severus answered testily. "But today the Dark Lord succeeded in creating an illusion that would tempt Potter tremendously. And if Dolores Umbridge has lost control of him, I cannot afford to discount the possibility that he has taken the bait." He reached out to push open the door.

"Wait! I don't understand. An illusion? How could the Dark Lord reach Potter here inside Hogwarts?" The wards around the school were meant to protect against such intrusions. It hadn't occurred to her to ask, earlier, why Potter believed his godfather to be in danger.

Severus grimaced. "Their minds are linked...through Potter's scar presumably."

"Dear God! And you were teaching him Occlumency!" _If the Dark Lord realized that_...

"The Dark Lord was aware that I was doing so on Dumbledore's orders and under his supervision. If the boy had actually made any effort, my failure to circumvent those orders might have been more difficult to explain." He leaned into the wall, and it gave way.

* * *

Out in the first floor corridor, they were in too much danger of being discovered for Sarah to risk any more questions. More than anything, she wanted to ask Severus where Potter would have gone, had he managed to get away from Umbridge. She did not like to think of Darkglass Hall being used as trap. Or Potter's body lying on the parquet floor of the drawing room.

She almost ran into Severus when he stopped short. Then she heard what he must have already: there were footsteps coming down the staircase they had been approaching.

Whoever it was halted as well. It couldn't be a teacher: only a student would be that wary. Sarah thought for a moment that Severus might let the infraction pass, simply to avoid the encounter. But there was a harsh whisper from above.

"_Sarah?_"

Sarah's eyes widened. _Angelina?_

"Come down here at once!" Severus ordered. His expression and manner lost any hint of another role than the terrifying Potions master of Hogwarts, and Sarah took a step backward, only partially by intention.

There was a muffled whisper from above: "_Oh shit!_" Then the culprit descended with obvious reluctance. Angelina's red satin pajamas were unmistakable as she came into sight.

"Well, well, Miss Johnson," the Potions master sneered. "There would appear to be an epidemic of students out of bed this evening. Or perhaps I've interrupted some clandestine meeting? Twenty _more_ points from Gryffindor!"

Sarah tried to look as if she'd just lost twenty points. But Angelina's puzzled expression was not helpful.

"Return to your dormitory immediately, Miss Johnson."

"Yes, sir," Angelina grumbled, turning to go back up the stairs after a last worried glance at Sarah.

"Miss Darkglass," he went on, even more sardonically. "I think you belong in the hospital wing. Perhaps I need to accompany you there to ensure your _safe arrival?_"

"No, sir," she answered automatically. Then kicked herself: he was fabricating an excuse for them to continue up the stairs together. And to prevent Angelina from hanging back.

"I disagree," he snapped. He glanced at the staircase. The other girl was out of sight. Nevertheless, he continued, "Do not dawdle, Miss Darkglass."

He strode off down the corridor, and Sarah trailed after, momentarily confused. Oh, there was another staircase—one closer to the hospital wing—further along this way. They rounded a corner, and Severus hissed, "It was _Johnson_ who saw you?"

"I told her I had to get back to the hospital wing." Sarah glowered sheepishly. "I never imagined she'd come looking for me."

"No one _important!_" he sneered. "A girl who already knows too much. You don't think she'll put the pieces together?"

"She won't tell anyone, even if she does." But the memory of Angelina's well-meant faithlessness sapped the confidence from her voice.

"She did not appear very hesitant to betray you before."

"Well, then, why didn't you just Obliviate her?" Sarah snapped back.

He stalked on, not looking at her. "It may never have occurred to you that Obliviation is a delicate skill, one I have not had the cause or occasion to learn."

"I would have thought that..." she lowered her voice even further, "as a _spy_, you'd have reason to know how."

"A spy's job is to _avoid_ situations where Obliviation would be necessary." This pointed comment was all too obviously aimed at her. He began mounting the stairs at a ruthless pace.

"You can hardly...expect me to...be as good at this...all the time...as you are," she panted, trying to keep up. After all of his well-founded accusations, she dared not ask him to slow down.

"I can and do expect you _not to make hazardous mistakes_."

There was no point in trying to defend herself further, even if she'd had the breath for it. "What do you want...me to do...to try to...correct it? _Professor?_"

"Trying to deceive a young woman to whom you've already told far too many lies? I will leave that problem for you to solve. Happily, at the end of next week, Miss Johnson will leave Hogwarts, never to return."

They had reached the second floor, and Severus made to continue up to the third.

"Where are you going?" Sarah gasped in an urgent whisper.

"I am taking you to the hospital wing," he said, as if that should be obvious.

"No." She stopped in her tracks, taking advantage of the pause to try to get her breath back. "If you think I'm going to lie there...worrying about what's going on... I'm not supposed to be made to worry, you know," she added.

Severus looked for a moment as if he were going to explode, but when he spoke, he had mastered the urge...mostly. "You no longer have any excuse to be in Umbridge's office."

"Then I'll wait around the corner," Sarah said, setting her features to convey absolute determination. "I'm not going back to bed until I know what's happened. Where would Potter have gone?"

"To Hades, I hope," Severus spat.

She ignored the pointless vitriol. "_To Darkglass Hall?_"

His angry expression slackened a little as he seemed to realize her concern. "No, to London."

* * *

Sarah peered around the corner as Severus tried Umbridge's door. She expected he would have to use a spell before he was done, but the knob appeared to give way readily. Nor did any voice or hint of sound emerge when he opened it. The woman would hardly have left the door in that condition, if she had returned.

After waiting long enough for him look around thoroughly, with still no hint of any furious eruption, Sarah risked giving in to both her curiosity and her anxiety about being seen in the corridor. Creeping up to the open door, she whispered, "_Professor Snape?_"

"_Get in here and close the door behind you_," he answered sharply.

He was standing near the office fireplace, looked up from the results of a testing spell.

"I told you to stay around the corner!" He was cross with her, but she could tell that he was not as angry as she'd feared he would be, after all the other things she'd done tonight.

"What if someone else had caught me out there?" she pointed out reasonably.

"Then you would have lost the points you deserve. And been sent back to the hospital wing, _where you belong_."

"Umbridge hasn't been back, has she?" Sarah frowned, guessing at the source of his distraction.

"I don't think so." Severus shook his head. "The door was both unlocked and unwarded. There are no longer any of the signs of a struggle I observed before, but I attribute that to the house-elves. However, the Floo has not been used since Potter employed it earlier today, and Umbridge would almost certainly have contacted the Ministry for assistance if Potter had escaped her." He let the testing spell drop.

"What does that mean, then?" She frowned. "If none of them have come back?"

"I wish I knew. If Umbridge is, contrary to my suspicions, a servant of the Dark Lord, she may have taken Potter to London herself, once she had him outside the grounds. Or she may be lying stunned in the forest, a victim of Potter's friends. Or all of them may have fallen prey to hazards in the forest, together or singly. Despite what so many students seem to believe, it is _Forbidden_ for good reason." He let out a slow breath. "We cannot discard any of the possibilities at this point. I shall begin searching the forest as soon as I have informed Professor Dumbledore and the others of what has occurred."

"Others?" Sarah blinked.

"Dumbledore's...compatriots. There was to be a meeting in London, very early in the morning tomorrow—or rather today—to discuss Potter's protection over the summer. I had no intention of attending. Nor, I think, do I have the time to do so, even now. But perhaps Dumbledore has already arrived. If not, the others can warn him."

Snatching a handful of Floo powder, Severus knelt in front of the fireplace and cast it down. Curiously, she couldn't make out the direction he gave, but a moment later, his head had disappeared into the green flames that leapt up.

Whomever he was speaking to at the other end, it was a long conversation. Or so it seemed to Sarah, who paced nervously, watching the door in fear that, at any moment, Umbridge might storm through it after all. But finally Severus pulled his head out of the fireplace, the magical fire dying away as he did. He did not look pleased.

"Was Dumbledore there?" she asked, almost certain the answer would be no.

He shook his head. "He's expected at any moment, but the others wouldn't wait to go looking for Potter. I warned Black to remain there until Dumbledore arrived, but I doubt he'll do so. Stupid, arrogant fool...well, if he wishes to risk being captured again..." Severus sneered.

"Black?" The only Blacks Sarah knew were in the Dark Lord's camp.

"Sirius Black," Severus replied sourly.

"The_ murderer?_" The whole school had been abuzz with the man's name two years ago—supposedly he was an escaped Death Eater. He had invaded the castle twice, despite the presence of dementors around the grounds and whatever other protections Professor Dumbledore had added to the school's already formidable defenses. And in the end he'd actually been captured on the grounds, although he had somehow managed to escape before he could be turned over the dementors. She had thought it curious that, although the Ministry issued statements now and again about their search for Black, the dementors had not returned the following year to guard Hogwarts. It was as if the problem had simply blown away over the summer, despite the fact that the man was still at large. Nor, she realized, had she heard anything of him in the process of being admitted to the Dark Lord's company.

"Yes, the murderer. Potter's beloved godfather." He twisted the words nastily.

Sarah blinked again. Most of the gossip had suggested that Black was trying to murder Harry Potter as well. Obviously the matter had been turned around somehow. But this did not seem to be the time—or the mood—to ask Severus for details. "How odd."

He shrugged dismissively. "You will inform Madam Pomfrey of what is happening, then remain in the hospital wing."

"Wait!" A hopeful idea occurred to her. "Could they have been injured? Could they be in the hospital wing right now?"

"Madam Pomfrey would have contacted me immediately if that were the case." He took Sarah's arm to urge her from the room. "You will go to bed and go to sleep, no matter how difficult you may believe that to be. You have already done too much tonight."

"I'm not helpless!" She shook off his arm. "I'm perfectly recovered. You didn't seem to think otherwise earlier," she added tauntingly. Then, although she knew perfectly well he would refuse, she said with great seriousness, "I want to come with you."

"Absolutely not!" His face darkened.

"It's dangerous out there!"

"That, I believe," he said sharply, "is the point! You will remain in the castle tonight if I have to use the Imperius Curse to _make_ you."

"All right, then! But can't you get someone else to help..." Sarah wondered if any of the teachers still at Hogwarts would be willing to go with Severus Snape into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night.

"No," he said abruptly. "Although if our lamentable headmistress had not been so determined to arrest him, I would have requested the assistance of Hagrid—he knows the forest as nobody else does. However, if Potter and his friends have managed to survive the dangers, I doubt very much that I will have any difficulty doing so. Or," he raised his eyebrows, "do you have so little confidence in me as to suppose otherwise?"

"Oh, _go_, damn you!" Sarah said. "But come back."

The look he gave her was worth every moment of grief she had ever felt on his account. "Surely I have every reason to," he said. Then he opened the door and strode out of the room, his cloak billowing from the force of his passage.

* * *

**A/N:** In this chapter (and the previous one), I have had to account for the following canon facts:

1. Although Snape presumably contacted Sirius shortly after leaving Umbridge's office (sometime around 6 pm), for unknown reasons he did not contact the Order again until well after midnight.

2. We are not told, in canon, how Snape knew Umbridge had taken Potter into the Forbidden Forest **_or_** how Snape knew they had not come back.

3. Snape, even then, was apparently not sure where Harry was, given the fact that (according to Dumbledore) he went to search the forest for him after informing the Order of the possibility that Harry had gone to the Ministry.

4. Dumbledore was, presumably, expected at Grimmauld Place on that night/early morning.

I hope you've enjoyed my explanation. :~)

More soon!


	47. Ch 46: We Can Breathe At Last

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Everything you recognize is Rowling's. Everything you don't is mine (but was inspired by her work). Anything you can't tell the difference...well, I'm flattered, but don't sue me!

**A/N:** I'm trying really hard to get back up to speed on this, but you'll see from this chapter (and the next) that I've had my work cut out for me.

Many thanks to my wonderful and patient readers! Extra special thanks to my reviewers (with a warm welcome for the new ones): Darla, Bellegeste, cecelle, Samantha-Ives, lucidity, kazza, Salienne de Lioncourt, Lady Whitehart, AlanaRose12 and Ray Dragon. And super kudos to Lady Whitehart and cecelle for their patient and much-needed input!

Be warned that this chapter does contain a few minor HBP spoilers. I've had time now to assimilate HBP, and I've come to the conclusion that, rather than ignoring HBP altogether, I'd like to suggest that it is Sarah's AU presence in Snape's life that changes certain things about how HBP plays out. I _don't_ plan to write this story out through the whole of HBP, however! Just so you know!

Oh, and there's a very, very oblique Rickman reference, if you can catch it. :)

* * *

**Chapter 46: We Can Breathe At Last**

Sarah went to the hospital wing to discharge the first part of her assignment, but she did not remain there. She couldn't bear it. If she did, she would only lie there waiting for Severus to limp in battered and bloody, with or without a mangled Harry Potter. She said as much to Madam Pomfrey: "If there are casualties, I'd rather be asleep in my own bed."

But she did not, in fact, go to her own bed. In the shadow of an alcove outside the hospital wing, she used her ring to go back to the dungeons. There, exhausted—both emotionally and physically—she climbed into the bed, pulled the covers, still heavy with the scent of their bodies, up to her nose, and tried not to imagine the progress Severus was making through the forest. The catalog of monsters that were supposed to live there would fill up a good half of the seven-year Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum (even assuming there was a competent teacher for all seven years). It was evidence of how weary she really was that she was still considering how he might cope with the giant spiders when she fell asleep.

She woke—how much later she was not sure—to a flash of light, and found herself blinking blearily up at what appeared to be a transparent silver phoenix hovering over the bed. It looked at her quizzically, then darted away, disappearing...through the wall? The ghost of a phoenix? How could that be? Professor Dumbledore was the only person she knew of who had one, and supposedly a phoenix could never die—it was simply reborn.

It ought be a bad omen, but she felt no sense of panic. On the contrary, it left her with an inexplicable sense of security. She had no impulse, at least, to run up to the hospital wing. Or maybe she was just too sleepy to react. But whatever it had been and whatever it had meant, it was gone now. Sarah turned over in the dark and went back to sleep.

When the second phoenix woke her—a minute or two after she'd fallen asleep again, it seemed—she began to wonder if she'd had, or was still having, a very odd dream. This time the ghostly bird swooped around the room, then dived under the bed. From the pattern of light that flashed on the floor, it appeared to be flying around in circles under there. _What on earth...?_

The Pensieve? They hadn't used it since her return from the meeting with the Dark Lord. It was only supposition—given that she had never seen Severus remove it—that it was still under the bed.

Suddenly, the rapid oscillating of the light ceased. The room went altogether dark. Once more, it was gone.

This time Sarah was too astonished to go back to sleep. She was also too fat to lean over the edge of the bed. Driven by curiosity, grumbling to herself, she ended up on her hands and knees on the floor.

"_Lumos!_"

There was nothing under the bed at all.

It had been Dumbledore's Pensieve—merely on loan to his Potions master. And now, if the ghostly phoenix did indeed signify Dumbledore, somehow he had taken it back. It was a vaguely uneasy thought, wondering what he might need it for, suddenly, that he had not for all these months.

Shivering from the perpetual chill in the dungeons, Sarah put out her wand light and slipped back under the covers. But even a warming charm on the blankets was inadequate comfort on this troubling night. Unable to find sleep again, she wrapped herself in her robes and conjured a fire in the fireplace. She pulled Severus's armchair as close to the fire as she dared, and picked up one of the many books on Dark Potions she had been studying before her horrible adventure with the Notts. Curling up in the chair (as well as she still could), she distracted herself from her worries with the effort of reading in the flickering light.

* * *

She woke to another flash, this time of green light, as the fireplace flared. Severus swore as he jerked back to avoid stumbling over the chair when he emerged. 

"I might have known you wouldn't do as I told you," he snarled.

"You're all right!" she said, before she was actually awake enough to see whether he was or not. She rubbed a hand across her eyes, closed the disarrayed book with the other, and sat up.

"Aside from nearly having had my head bashed in by centaurs for no good purpose, yes." Despite this statement, he seemed essentially undamaged, if a bit more cranky than usual. He threw himself down in the other chair, his face lined with exhaustion, his eyes heavy with lack of sleep.

"Centaurs?" Sarah was vaguely aware that Dumbledore had hired a centaur to teach Divination, after Trelawney's ignominious sacking. Of all the creatures that lived in the forest, she would have expected centaurs to be at least remotely friendly. "Why would the centaurs attack a Hogwarts teacher?"

"Apparently out of their arrogant conviction that it is human beings alone who are the source of all evil. Heaven forbid they should sully the hands attached to their superior brains," Severus said sarcastically, "to do anything about it themselves. However, it seems they did us a good turn without intending to." He smirked grimly.

"They protected Potter?" That made no sense.

"Not intentionally, I think. But Umbridge has been in their tender care all night—would be still, if it were left to me. Potter _did_ manage to get to London, while leaving her their prisoner."

"Well, good for him."

"Only," Severus snapped, "if you believe ridiculous amounts of attention are good for him."

Sarah groaned inwardly. "About _Umbridge_, I meant. And what do you mean attention?"

"Leading half a dozen students—some younger than himself—out of school; breaking into the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic; and attempting—with said group of students—to battle a squad of Death Eaters," Severus enumerated sourly on his long fingers. "All of which he somehow managed to survive. Which has made him, of course, the hero of the bloody day yet again."

"What about the others?"

"They all survived, miraculously it would seem. All except Black. I _knew_ he would go after Potter. And now, thanks to the boy's own foolishness, his godfather is dead. Bellatrix killed him. I'm sure she enjoyed that." The sneer on his face suggested that he had no great sorrow over the man's death either.

Sarah could not help but feel a stab of pity for the boy; as an orphan herself, she could imagine what it would be like to lose yet another important person in her life. And she had never had time to ask Severus whether the man had really committed the crime he'd been imprisoned for. On the one hand it seemed unlikely, if he was one of Dumbledore's allies; on the other, considering that Severus was also among his allies...

He must have marked the doubt in her expression, because he said forcefully, "The man deserved what he got."

She frowned at him thoughtfully, not sure what to say, or even what to think.

With an uncertain mingling of anger and unease in his eyes, Severus stood up and said bluntly, "Professor Dumbledore wishes to speak with you. Or rather, with us."

"He's back?" It seemed too wonderful to be possible, after all they had suffered. "For good?"

"So I was led to believe. The Dark Lord entered the Ministry during the battle—perhaps one of the Death Eaters alerted him that the situation was going badly, although I'm not sure who would have been that foolish. Perhaps his connection with Potter allowed him to sense what was happening: that seems a good deal more likely. In any event, Dumbledore fought him there. A stalemate in the end. But Fudge could hardly continue to deny the Dark Lord's return or Albus Dumbledore's role in resisting him after that.

"It's very fortunate," he went on, "that neither of us were involved in any way in this business. The Dark Lord will be furious with those who failed him. Not only was he prevented from achieving his design, but now he is revealed to the whole wizarding world. That may prove to our personal advantage." He looked more pleased than he had yet done this morning. "As I said, Bellatrix was there."

"Killed? Captured?" Sarah felt a surge of hatred for the woman.

"Alas, no, apparently. But the headmaster may have better news by now." He extended a hand to help her rise to her feet.

She smoothed down her rumpled clothing as best she could. "Back stairs?" she asked. Even with Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, even with the school year nearly at an end, it was still not safe for her to be seen leaving the Potion master's quarters.

"Floo," he said. "The Ministry monitors have been removed."

"Well, that's another good thing," she remarked, stepping over to take up a handful of Floo powder. "Professor Dumbledore's office!"

* * *

"Good morning," the reinstated headmaster greeted her as she stepped out of the fireplace. He was sitting at his desk, and he looked frighteningly weary, his face almost grey in the morning light. "Good morning, Severus. Won't you both sit down?" 

Remembering uneasily the last time she had been here, she sank into the same chair as before. She glanced around, wondering where the Pensieve might be and whether Dumbledore had, in fact, used some magic to retrieve it. Fawkes' perch was empty, but a phoenix chick sat in the ashes underneath, reviving the bizarre notion of a phoenix ghost. She had forgotten to mention the incident to Severus, and the headmaster looked too resolutely fixed upon whatever was on his mind to distract him with such questions at the moment. Severus drew up a hard-backed chair beside her and sat down twitchily, as if he would rather be pacing the room.

"Well, Sarah," Dumbledore said, "I have been told that you have acquitted yourself most commendably in very difficult circumstances. I am sorry that it was necessary to place you in such an unpleasant position." He looked more than a little regretful; he had not, she realized, attempted to foist candy on her. But in spite of this, in spite of his praise, she felt her temper begin to rouse.

"Do you know what I've had to agree to do?" she asked tightly.

"Severus has kept me informed of your situation, yes. However, I think you will find," he looked to his Potions master at this point, "as I mentioned to you earlier, Severus, that your position has improved substantially. Several Death Eaters were captured at the Ministry. I now have their names: among them are Lucius Malfoy and Franklin Nott. So you see," he turned back to Sarah, "your uncle will be quite unable to enforce his part of your agreement."

"Thank God!" Severus breathed.

Sarah breathed a sigh of her own. It was as if a weight far heavier than she remembered had suddenly been lifted from her back. Still, there was a name lacking from that list to provide total relief. "What about Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Unfortunately, Voldemort rescued her—she was, I believe, the only Death Eater to escape. Still, he is not known for his forgiving nature, and the battle at the Ministry went very badly for him. Bellatrix will not be in any position in the near future to request favors from him. Do you concur, Severus?"

"She has always been a favorite, but such a failure will not go unpunished." But Severus was frowning.

Sarah, too, did not feel as encouraged as Dumbledore seemed to hope. "Won't that make her more likely to tell everything she knows? About us, I mean?"

"Perhaps," the old wizard conceded. "But she may wait. At the present moment, revealing the true extent of your relationship with Severus would benefit only Severus. Unless and until she can think of a way to turn the information to her own advantage, she will remain silent."

"We won't know anything for certain," Severus pointed out stiffly, "until I am summoned tonight."

"As you undoubtedly will be," Dumbledore agreed.

Sarah turned to Severus, fear stabbing through her heart. "He won't blame you?"

"He has no reason to. Draco Malfoy can confirm that I stood aside and allowed Dolores Umbridge to give Potter the opportunity to escape from the school. He knows that Potter is watched closely enough that sooner or later his protectors would catch up with him. He has no reason to believe that I played any part in what happened last night."

"He seems capable of taking out his anger on anyone near him," Sarah said grimly, not entirely convinced.

"So he is," Dumbledore said. "But he is not—for which we should all be grateful—entirely mad. Indeed, it is his reason, as well as a remarkable degree of patience, that leads him to spin such plots as the one that almost succeeded last night." His blue eyes stared at nothing for a long moment, and they were like deep, deep wells of sorrowful thought. Then he blinked, his eyes regaining something of their accustomed twinkle as they came into focus again.

"For now, we must make plans of our own. Your time as a student here, Sarah, will end very shortly. And your future, as you have just pointed out, is subject to forces beyond the control of any of us in this room. However, that does not mean we should abandon all efforts to tilt the balance in your favor. We have reason to hope that the events which took place last night will have strengthened your position. You believe, Severus, that she will be permitted to take the Potions apprenticeship?"

"There is no reason now to believe she will not. I have no doubt whatsoever of her N.E.W.T. marks. The Dark Lord will not reject the possibility of having another expert potions-brewer at his beck and call. Undoubtedly he trusts Sarah more than he trusts me."

She turned in surprise, shuddering at the thought. "Why would he?"

Severus wore a sardonic expression. "Because you have never given him reason to doubt your loyalty."

"But I have never given him reason to believe in it, either," she pointed out, puzzled.

"But your father did," Dumbledore put in unexpectedly. "You underestimate his tendency to view people as objects for his use. In that regard, one generation is very much the same as another in his eyes. A number of his current Death Eaters are the children of his associates in his youth. Your uncle, for instance."

"Did you never wonder why he is not a favorite?" Severus put in. "Why he remains on the edge of the inner circle? He is paying for his father's mistakes, not his own. Well, until now," he snorted.

"Which reminds me, Severus," Dumbledore said. "It seems probable that Lucius Malfoy's failure at the Ministry will put Draco, young as he is, in danger of Voldemort's displeasure. If you could keep a careful eye on him...?"

"The boy no longer trusts me," Severus said. "Even before the break with his father, he was becoming less and less amenable to my guidance."

Unexpectedly, one of the portraits on the wall spoke up. "Typical of that age," commented a green-clad wizard with a pointed beard. "The older the students get, the worse it is. They never listen. Until, of course, it is too late," he added in an almost mournful tone.

"Please, Phineas," Dumbledore said wearily, then turned his attention back to Severus. "Do your best."

The Potions master nodded shortly.

"Now, back to the topic I asked you here to discuss. I realize that the conditions of this apprenticeship will be difficult. I refer particularly to your child," he inclined his head toward Sarah. "I fear it would be unwise now to keep him with you at Hogwarts. If Voldemort were to learn at any point of his existence, it would immediately become clear that I, too, knew of it. Which would cast instant suspicion upon you both.

"And yet I hate to separate you. The love of a mother for her child is a powerful thing, Sarah. More powerful, even, than the love of a man for a woman. Powerful enough, in fact, to have protected young Harry Potter from Voldemort's Killing Curse. Although in a sense, the other..." Dumbledore was looking pensively at Severus, who squirmed uncomfortably, either at the old man's glance or at his words.

"Don't credit me with wanting to protect the boy," he broke in abruptly, to Sarah's bewilderment. "That was never my intention and you know it."

"And yet," Dumbledore said, a bit sorrowfully, "you have done so many times since then."

Severus did not answer.

"You mean, that's what saved Harry Potter from the Killing Curse?" Sarah asked, amazed. "His mother's love? Not any power of his own?" It was troubling to think that the whole wizarding world expected the boy—a boy who was, as it now seemed, not mysteriously powerful after all—to save them from the Dark Lord.

"Oh, yes." Dumbledore nodded. "Few people know of it, for obvious reasons. Voldemort learned in the end what had defeated him that night. And yet, for all that, I believe he continues to underestimate love's power.

"That is, of course, why I permitted the two of you to marry. Severus has the most dangerous job in the Order—dangerous to more than his life, as you have undoubtedly begun to understand yourself. To pretend to evil is a hazardous undertaking to the soul. The more so when one has done evil in earnest and turned from it. I value him and I also fear for him...more than I say." Dumbledore's eyes, shining with emotion, were turned to the younger man, whose face had developed a grudging expression of grim satisfaction. "I can offer him no better protection than your love for one another."

Sarah frowned slightly, remembering a far different reality about the last time she had been in this office. Had Professor Dumbledore misjudged the situation then? Or had he somehow known more than they had? She was not sure she wanted to know which it was; it was more comforting to assume the latter.

"The Order?" she asked, turning to another unexplained portion of his comments. Last night Severus had spoken of Dumbledore's compatriots. Apparently they were more organized that she would have supposed, if they called themselves an Order. Which was encouraging, given the Ministry of Magic's unwillingness to act.

"You haven't told her?" Dumbledore furrowed his bushy brows.

"No, I have not," Severus said defensively. "It seemed neither wise nor necessary to do so."

Sarah stared as pieces of memory fell into place. This was the very conversation she had overheard the last time she'd Floo'd into this office. She had not had enough information then to hear the capital 'O' in 'Order.'

"She has earned the right to know that others fight on the same side," Dumbledore said. He seemed about to go on, but he was interrupted.

"_I_ will tell her," Severus said. "I would rather she need not conceal the memory of learning that information from you."

After a moment's consideration, Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "It is as well," he acknowledged, "that she not become a member of the Order. Formally, at least. The risks, as you say, are too great."

The headmaster sat up straighter in his chair. "We must return to other matters. As I mentioned before, it would be unwise now to keep your child at Hogwarts. Have you considered what you might prefer as an alternative solution?"

Sarah glanced quickly at Severus, knowing that their previous discussions of the matter had ended without a satisfactory conclusion. But with Dumbledore present to arbitrate, she ventured, "I've suggested me not taking the apprenticeship."

"I will not have your talent wasted!" Severus erupted. "I thought we had agreed—"

Dumbledore raised a hand to cut him off. "I must agree with Severus in this instance. The probability that the Dark Lord will order you to take the apprenticeship is too great to avoid making plans for that eventuality. Unless you wish to risk the Dark Lord making such decisions for you?"

Sarah looked down, shaking her head. "No, of course not."

"Severus?" Dumbledore looked to him. "Have you considered my suggestions?"

"I have. But I am not sure that it is safe to send him away altogether."

"Out of Britain?" Sarah asked, feeling a sense of alarm rising in her, despite the fact that she knew it was the most reasonable thing to do.

"I have friends in distant places who would welcome him and care well for him," Dumbledore said reassuringly.

"And if Bellatrix reveals that Sarah has a child?" Severus asked skeptically. "I doubt she would believe the old ruse that he died at birth. Nor would the Dark Lord, knowing we had tried already to conceal his existence. If he learns that much, he will want to know where the child is hidden, and if I cannot give him a satisfactory answer..."

"I see your point," Dumbledore said. "But it is quite a problem, is it not? A guardian that will suit _all_ the interested parties."

_If only_, Sarah thought, _I had not broken with Aunt Portia_. But no, her guardianship would never satisfy the Dark Lord—that would only make it clear to him where Sarah's loyalties truly lay. And the rest of her family...she _might_ have trusted Chester and Niniane, if they had not been so entirely under Aunt Fiona's thumb. There was no one else...

"Knockturn Alley?" she said, wondering why she had never seriously considered that before.

"An eminently reasonable solution." Dumbledore was clearly pleased by the suggestion.

Severus shifted in his chair, and Sarah realized why she had not considered it: he would never agree to it. She was not happy about it herself—the image of her son as one of those ragged waifs still haunted her.

Dumbledore fixed the younger man with a firm look. "Unless you would rather foster him with one of your associates?"

"As a matter of fact," Severus said, grimacing, "I was about to suggest Knockturn Alley myself. As little as I like the idea—and I like it _very_ little—it may be our only choice. But only for the time being," he added forcefully.

"I understand," Dumbledore said. "And I do not believe he will have to remain there for more than his infancy. Time is growing short."

"What do you mean?" Sarah asked uneasily. His words suggested a sword of doom hanging over them all—a stroke of fate, not the long and difficult war she had imagined.

Dumbledore looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, as if weighing how much to tell her. Finally he spoke. "Harry Potter was lured to the Ministry last night for a very specific reason. Not to kill him, as one might suppose, but to obtain an artifact, which was to be taken from him and brought to Lord Voldemort. Thankfully it was destroyed before it could be brought away."

The headmaster paused again. "That artifact was the record of a prophecy—the very prophecy which led him to try, unsuccessfully, to destroy Harry as a baby. He only knew part of that prophecy at the time: the information was brought to him by one of his servants who happened to overhear a portion of it." Sarah, anxiously alert, did not miss Dumbledore's sudden glance at Severus. "It was his belief that if he could hear it in its entirety, he might learn how to prevent its fulfillment."

"What was the prophecy, then?" Sarah's fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. She was almost afraid to hear the answer.

"In short, that a particular boy would have the power to defeat him—a boy we now know to be Harry Potter. I'm afraid that it would be unwise to tell you more, for reasons I'm sure will be obvious to you."

Her proximity to the Dark Lord, of course. Sarah frowned, not at the headmaster's reticence, but at the awfulness of her own position. She felt Severian writhe in her womb, as if in sympathy to her feelings.

"_Is_ there a way for Potter to defeat him? Again, I mean. For good?"

"You will have to take my word for it," Dumbledore smiled ruefully, "but yes, there is."

"We can only hope so," Severus interjected sardonically. "What fool will be teaching him Defense Against the Dark Arts _next_ year?"

"I assume," Dumbledore said, "that you will be applying again for the position?"

Severus sat up straight, obviously startled. "I hadn't intended to. Certainly not if Sarah is permitted to take the Potions apprenticeship."

"Hmmm." Dumbledore fingered his beard.

"You _can't_ mean to offer me the position _now?_" Severus sneered in disbelief. "Surely I would have been preferable to that Ministry cow this year, but _no_—"

Dumbledore, although apparently unruffled at this outpouring of frustration, nevertheless interrupted it. "With the Ministry so determined to interfere, it seemed best to permit them to fill the Defense position."

"And damn the results!" Severus said angrily. "Why consider this now? When I am least able to accept it?"

The headmaster sighed. "For a number of reasons, Severus. One of which is that I am, quite frankly, running out of possible candidates. The curse has, after all, been operating for over thirty years."

"Curse?" Sarah interjected. There had always been rumors that the Defense position was cursed—certainly they had never had the same teacher for more than a year, except for Professor Quirrell. At the beginning of her first year, all the older students had been gossiping wildly about the fact that the _previous_ year's Defense master, Professor Dent, had suffered a spectacular breakdown in mid-year. But his replacement—Professor Quirrell—had not returned either: he had decided to take a year off "for experience." Which had left Sarah and her classmates to be introduced to the subject by Professor Frost, a painfully slender witch who had never let them forget for a moment that she was "only temporary," brushing aside all questions in class with the observation that "undoubtedly the great Professor_ Quirrell_ will be able to answer much better than_ I _possibly could, when he returns from his _grand study tour_." Sadly, although he had lasted through her second and third years, Quirrell had not been much of an improvement. And at the end of her third year, he was supposed to have died while trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone—under the influence, some said (those old rumors had certainly been revived _this_ year) of the Dark Lord's disembodied spirit. As for his successors, Professor Lockhart had ended up in St. Mungo's, the victim of a memory charm gone wrong; Professor Lupin had been revealed as a werewolf; Professor Moody had turned out to have been an imposter—actually a Death Eater; and it was obvious that Umbridge was going to be sacked, if she didn't choose to leave of her own accord. Hardly a stellar record.

"Alas, yes," Dumbledore answered, turning to Sarah. "Long ago, when Voldemort first began his rise to power, I refused him the position. As he surely must have known I would do. I have long believed that part of his reason for returning to Hogwarts that day was to unleash the curse, thereby assuring that the subject most necessary to resisting him would become difficult or impossible to teach, leaving the next generation of witches and wizards poorly prepared to fight against him."

"Well, he has certainly succeeded in that!" Severus broke in sharply. "And for fourteen years you have refused the alternative."

"I have, Severus. For reasons we have discussed many times before. My opinion has not changed. If I were to give you the position, it would only be with the expectation that it would be your final year of teaching at Hogwarts. But I have begun, of late, to consider whether that might not be the best thing at this point."

Severus went pale, the anger draining from his face. "What do you mean?"

"As I was about to explain to Sarah a few minutes ago, before I was diverted from the subject, I do not expect the final confrontation between Harry and Lord Voldemort to be delayed much beyond the ending of Harry's seventh year. The protections I have given him will fail when he reaches adulthood, and Voldemort knows that he must be prepared to strike swiftly then, before Harry can grow any further in power. The closer that time approaches, the more desperate Voldemort will become for any knowledge which he believes will be of use to him in destroying Harry. He will press you as never before, Severus, and it will be become more and more difficult to withhold information and still prove your loyalty."

Sarah bit her lip. It was a miserably plausible suggestion.

"So, you mean to use the curse to send me away from Hogwarts?" He sounded unconvinced, but his face remained very pale. "And what if—as I have argued so many times—the curse does not apply to me? You know I was sent here by the Dark Lord to obtain that very post. I fail to understand why you continue to dismiss Quirrell's tenure. The very fact of his second year, before he was actually possessed, proves that any of his servants—"

"No, Severus, I dare not call that proof." Dumbledore shook his head. "There are too many unknowns in the nature of the curse. We cannot discount the possibility that my experiment to try to retain Professor Quirrell, despite its tragic outcome, may have worked."

"Do you not think it more likely," Severus asked, with a hint of venom, "that when you sent Quirrell off for the year, you were giving the curse an opportunity to _do_ its work?"

Dumbledore's eyes widened, showing that this was a new suggestion in what was obviously a long-standing argument. He frowned deeply. "Alas, that may be, although it pains me to think I sent that young man inevitably to such a terrible fate. But that does not change the fact that Barty Crouch, Jr.—despite being Voldemort's servant—did not manage to overcome the curse."

"Given that you did not, in fact, hire him, I will continue to deny that his fate has any relevance," Severus said stubbornly.

"We will not have this argument again." Dumbledore's voice had grown firm, his expression equally so. "The fact remains, we cannot assume that the end result would be any different, were you to take the position. But you would then be relieved of the necessity of spying upon me. And Voldemort could cast no blame upon you for the loss of your post."

"And if I'm right, what then? Would you still find an excuse to discharge me, to protect your precious Potter?" The words were bitter. "And what of Sarah?"

"Have you considered, Severus," Dumbledore asked, "that it might be better for the two of you—and your child—if you were no longer bound by the necessary strictures of this school?"

The younger man's face grew paler than before, and something in his expression made it clear how very much he was, in his own eyes, still Dumbledore's student. "I do not wish to leave Hogwarts."

Dumbledore did not answer; he simply looked at Severus, with a regretful expression on his face.

"You promised me—" Severus began heatedly.

"I remember my promises very well," Dumbledore said mildly.

"Being dismissed—"

"I do not intend to dismiss you. If you are right and I am wrong about the curse, I imagine that between us we are clever enough to create an excuse that _looks_ like the operation of the curse."

"It would still appear to be a _failure_." Sarah could hear a hint of desperation in his voice. Perhaps he realized it himself, because he shifted to sarcasm. "And full-time employment with the Dark Lord is hardly likely to prove an impressive credential to the board of governors."

"A man who has been instrumental in the overthrow of a Dark Wizard need not fear that his former reputation will prevent him from achieving his goals," Dumbledore said. "And remember that those former Slytherins who survive this war, whether they supported Lord Voldemort or not, will want partisans of their own in positions of power, to protect their interests and to prevent a backlash. You will, in fact, be ideally placed. After all," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily, "Slytherin heroes are in short supply just now."

Sarah watched the frown slacken and the tightness ease from Severus's brow, although doubt remained in his eyes. "Heroes," he snorted.

"If it makes you feel any better," Dumbledore said, "I have not decided anything yet. But I wanted you to be aware of the possibility."

For the first time in several minutes, Severus glanced at Sarah. "If I did take the position," he asked, "what would that mean for Sarah's apprenticeship? I can hardly convince the Dark Lord to permit her to take it if I am not to be her teacher."

"No doubt Voldemort will expect you submit your application for the Dark Arts position, as you have done every year—to do otherwise would arouse my suspicions. And to refuse the position, if offered, would raise my suspicions further. If I have already convinced the new Potions master to accept Sarah's apprenticeship in your stead, Voldemort cannot rescind his decision without casting suspicion upon both of you."

"Do my apprenticeship with someone else?" Sarah protested. "Have I nothing to say about this?"

To her shock and surprise, neither of them answered her, and Severus asked warily, "Whom would you hire to teach Potions?"

Dumbledore eyed his Potions master speculatively. "I believe I could convince Professor Slughorn to come out of retirement."

Severus snorted. "You know I refused his apprenticeship myself."

"I had always supposed that it was your pride that got in the way, because you were his second choice."

Severus' face seemed to freeze, as did his voice. "That had nothing to do with it. The man is barely competent to teach N.E.W.T. level."

Finally Professor Dumbledore turned his attention to Sarah. "I am afraid, Sarah," he said, "that your choices are even more limited than Severus's. But it would only be for one year."

"And I would complete my apprenticeship as the assistant to the Dark Lord's potion-maker?" It was grim idea. But, she realized, it had always been there, waiting. Even if she had completed her apprenticeship with Severus at Hogwarts, the next step had always been potion-maker to the Dark Lord.

"There would be compensations I cannot offer you at Hogwarts. The chance to live together as man and wife, to raise your own child." Dumbledore suddenly sounded as weary as he had looked when they came in. He did not have the energy to persuade her as he had persuaded Severus, she realized. But his eyes were pleading with her.

Had she not begged Severus, only yesterday, for some means of having both her son and her husband with her? And now Professor Dumbledore was offering—no, almost enforcing—that very thing. If love was, indeed, the power he had said, then he was handing them a lamp to light the dark path ahead, a shield that even the Dark Lord could not break.

"It seems we have little choice," she said. She looked to Severus.

"I would prefer to give Sarah extra tuition in Potions myself," he told Dumbledore. "I would find the time."

"Doubtless that could be arranged," Dumbledore agreed.

"You realize, I hope," Severus whispered, "that my future rests upon your judgment, Headmaster. _All_ of my future." Without warning, his hand shot out and clasped Sarah's where it rested on the arm of her chair.

"I do," Dumbledore said quietly. "But I hope, Severus, that you realize that all our futures may very well rest, in large part, upon you." His eyes were no longer twinkling as he fixed the other man with the most serious gaze Sarah had ever seen.

There was a silence then, a very long silence, which Sarah had neither the courage nor the inclination to break. Finally, Severus shifted in his seat and let her go, as if suddenly realizing that he had demonstrated his affection in a more public manner than he would have chosen. Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Please excuse me," he said. "But I have done more in a single morning, with far less sleep, than I have done in decades. I expect you to maintain the proper degree of discretion through the end of the term. But I will point out that, at present, no one is certain where Sarah is supposed to be. And I daresay you have a great deal to discuss with one another."

"Yes, Headmaster," Severus said, standing. He made to usher Sarah toward the fireplace, but she had not stood. She was looking at the very old, very tired wizard across from her. He seemed more frail than she had ever imagined their spry and robust headmaster could ever be.

"Will I ever speak with you again?" she asked.

"I do hope so, Sarah," Dumbledore said. "As for your report tonight, Severus...unless it is something of vital importance, it can wait until morning."

Severus nodded. Sarah got to her feet, feeling that she must look rather foolish, struggling this way to stand up, and for no visible cause. With a final backward glance at the headmaster, she picked up a handful of Floo powder and cast it down.

**A/N:** I've tried to expound my Quirrell theory in this chapter, but it was a bit difficult to do without resorting to the horrible "As you know, Professor..." gambit. So for those who didn't quite catch all the conversational clues, I'll explain my theory a little more directly.

We know that Quirrell has taught DADA more than one year, contrary to Dumbledore's assertion in HBP that no teacher has done so since Voldemort asked for (and then cursed) the job (which would have been sometime in the late 50s or early 60s). And although it's easy to assume that Quirrell's "year off" took place immediately before Harry's first year, evidence within canon shows that that's not the case. Hagrid remarks that Quirrell was fine before his year off, but afterward was afraid of his subject and his students. If Quirrell had just returned to Hogwarts at the beginning of Harry's first year, Hagrid would have no basis for that comment (not yet having seen Quirrell interacting with his students after the "year off"). Also, at the welcoming feast, Percy calls the DADA position "Quirrell's job," which he would not likely do if Quirrell had not been there the year before.

So my projected timeline for Quirrell looks something like this:  
1988: Quirrell begins teaching DADA at midyear.  
1989: Quirrell's "year off"; Sarah's first year.  
1990: Quirrell returns, bringing the disembodied Voldemort with him, not yet possessed, but a frightened and possibly unwilling servant.  
1991: After Quirrell fails to steal the Stone from Gringotts, Voldemort possesses him. Harry's first year.

Severus believes that Quirrell's ability to complete his second year (1990) without incident is because he was, at that point, Voldemort's servant. Dumbledore, on the other hand, believes that his experiment—giving Quirrell a sabbatical in an attempt to foil the curse (by not having teachers teach _consecutive_ years)—may have worked. (Incidentally, I'm postulating that at some previous point, Dumbledore has determined that the curse counts a _calendar_ year, not merely a school year.)

A lot of my ideas about Quirrell have been formed by reading Red Hen's essay on the subject, although there are a few things she doesn't take into account that I picked up from a variety of other sources and from my own deliberations on the subject. Still, I recommend her essay highly. She theorizes that Dumbledore actually _knew_ that Quirrell had Voldemort with him (having realized that at some point during the year before Harry's first year), and that the whole business of having the Stone at Hogwarts was actually a complex plot to try to trap Voldemort in front of the Mirror of Erised. As "out there" as that theory seems, it does explain a lot of things about PS/SS that don't quite make sense, and it also accounts for Snape's conversations with Quirrell.


	48. Ch 47: God Give Me Courage to Show You

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** As always, the Potterverse belongs to J. K. Rowling. The HBP theories outlined in this chapter, however, belong to me.

**A/N:** As you might have guessed from the disclaimer, this chapter contains HBP spoilers galore! Although I still intend to keep this story AU (as a sort of parallel universe), and also consequently plan for Sarah's existence to change certain things about how HBP plays out, I finally managed to figure out how to work in some of the HBP-related background material about the Snape/Lily/James dynamic. (Snape's Knockturn Alley background, of course, will continue to be AU). I love theories. :)

Many thanks to Salienne de Lioncourt, Bellegeste, Darla, cecelle, Ray Dragon, Samantha-Ives, Jenni Lecil, Lady Whitehart, lucidity and AlanaRose12 for their reviews! I have the best reviewers in the world. :) And thanks, as well, to Lady Whitehart and cecelle, for their usual excellent quality control.

For anyone who wondered, Arthur Dent is the main character in the film version of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_, in which Rickman plays the voice of Marvin.

Contrary to what it may seem in this chapter, I'm not advocating either the consumption of alcohol or the breaking of glass.

* * *

**Chapter 47: God Give Me Courage to Show You**

Severus threw himself into his chair, his expression very black. Sarah, not knowing what to say—not daring, in fact, to say anything—stood silent for several minutes, watching him, trying to decide what had upset him so much. Was it Dumbledore's terribly disillusioning means of suggesting that he might give Severus the post he had coveted for fourteen years? Or was it that Dumbledore had, in effect, ordered him to tell her things that, in Severus' own judgment, were better kept from her?

Quite abruptly, and without looking at her, he ordered, "Bring me the firewhiskey."

Sarah hesitated. Nothing good had come of his drinking, ever, in her experience.

"I said—" he began, turning at last to glare at her.

"I heard you," she said.

"Then do as I say!" He looked to be on the verge of taking points from Gryffindor. Sarah was afraid she would laugh out loud if he did.

With more than a little unease, she went to the wardrobe. She was afraid she would have to open several drawers (revealing who-knew-what secrets) to find what he asked for, but the object of her search was on a narrow shelf, half-hidden by black robes.

He had replaced the glass he had shattered at Christmas. But the amber liquid, flickering subtly with the hint of inner flames, was only down by a quarter from where she remembered. She hoped it was the same bottle. Hoping, too, that was she wasn't making a mistake, she poured a couple fingers' worth into the glass, then put the bottle carefully away before she took the drink to Severus.

He took the glass wordlessly and, wincing, tossed back the firewhiskey in a single swallow.

"I hope I'm not going to regret this," Sarah said.

He looked at her sharply as he handed the glass back to her. "Certain things...require the edge to be taken off."

"If you don't want to tell me now—" She cradled the glass in her hands.

"It's best to get it over with," he spat.

She nodded and sank silently into her own chair.

"Well, what would you have me tell first?" It was very close to a snarl.

"Tell me whatever you will, however you will," she said shortly, impatient at his attempt to cast some sort of blame on her for this.

He stared into the fire for a nearly a minute before he said anything.

"The Order, then," he said. "I will tell you as much as the Dark Lord knows. He cannot suppose that you got the information from anyone but me.

"The Order of the Phoenix was brought together by Albus Dumbledore during the first war. The Ministry were no better at fighting the Dark Lord then than they are proving to be now. The Order did considerable damage to the Dark Lord's plans at that time, and it is likely they will do so again—indeed, they did so last night. He knows of the Order's existence, but he does not know the full complement of its members. Naturally, he would like to kill as many of them as possible. Which is the reason that I have told you nothing of them up to now."

Stung by the implication that she was still untrustworthy, Sarah ventured, "I didn't reveal anything I shouldn't have, did I? When I came before him?"

"No, you did not," Severus conceded. "But there is still no reason, in his eyes, why I should have told you more than I already have. Remember, he has reason to fear that Dumbledore might become aware of your allegiance. Your knowledge might prove equally dangerous to either of them, which is why I have deliberately kept you in the dark about so many things, and why I will continue to do so." He glared at her, as if daring her to challenge him.

Sarah considered his words. There was, in fact, little reason for her to know more than he had told her about the Order. As Dumbledore had said, it was enough to know that others fought—_really_ fought—for the same cause. "I would like to know one thing," she said.

"Well?" he asked impatiently, when she paused.

"The names of some of the members that he already knows about. I never want to be in a position again where I have no one to turn to for help if...if something should happen to you..."

His frown deepened. But finally he said, "There are several among the Ministry Aurors who are also members of the Order. I won't reveal their names, but if you send a message in my name to that office of the Ministry, one of them will surely realize its importance."

"No names, then?"

"Whom shall I put in danger for your sake, Sarah? All right, then—one name. One of the very few who already know about you, and one you'll undoubtedly recognize: Remus Lupin."

She was not surprised. A werewolf was welcome in few places, and Dumbledore had already shown a high degree of trust in their former Defense professor simply by hiring him. "It was he who wrote to you over Easter, wasn't it? The letter you wouldn't let me read."

"Yes." Severus passed a hand over his face. "One more thing—one last resort. Conceal your identity from prying eyes and go to the proprietor of the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade."

Sarah frowned. The place had a questionable reputation—more the sort of pub where one might find Death Eaters than Order members.

"I told you it was a last resort. Say nothing there which you cannot risk being overheard, unless the proprietor tells you otherwise."

She nodded, turning the empty glass in her hands, her thoughts wandering over all she had been told in the past twenty-four hours. Severus went silent as well—no surprise there. He had stated plainly that there were a number of things he expected to tell her, but in spite of the firewhiskey, he was obviously in no hurry to do so. Nor did she particularly want to press him for information he did not want to reveal; she wasn't ready for another quarrel. And yet she felt restless to have this conversation—whatever he expected of it—over and done.

Finally, following the trail of her thoughts, she said, "It was you who overheard the prophecy, wasn't it?"

She could feel, as much as see, him grow tense at the question, but he did not answer. With a silent sigh, she let it go. _What else had Dumbledore spoken of?_

"I never imagined what would happen." It was a hoarse whisper. "Divination is a lot of rot. There was no reason to suppose that any child fitting those conditions would be born at the designated time. But I knew, when I was caught listening, that any chance of being considered for the Dark Arts position was gone. I was desperate for something to deflect the Dark Lord's displeasure. A few worthless words babbled by a barmy bint. I never thought—"

"I'm not blaming you."

He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"I mean it. What reason had you to think the information was of any use?"

He looked away. "I ought to have known that the Dark Lord would not consider it to be foolishness. I was putting an infant—some infant, somewhere—at risk. Although that hardly seemed to matter to me at the time." He pressed the long fingers of one hand to the bridge of his nose.

"Is that why you protect him now?" She knew she was treading on thin ice—she always was, where Potter was concerned. But Dumbledore had hinted at some deeper reason for Severus's actions toward the boy. _Is that why you hate him? _she thought, though she restrained herself from saying it.

"No! I do it because it's necessary. And for no other reason."

"Then you believe in the prophecy now?"

"What I believe is of little consequence. The Dark Lord believes it. Albus Dumbledore believes it. And from this day forward, Harry Potter will believe it. As if he needed anything more to inflate his head."

"What does that have to do with whether or not you try to protect him?"

"Because one essential component in the theory of magic is that belief translates into action. I agree with Dumbledore there, at least. It no longer matters whether the prophecy is true. If everybody behaves as if it is, the events it predicts may still come to pass. If only because all of the players have placed themselves in the roles in which they have been cast by it. I want to see this finished, no matter who does it." His expression was sour enough to make her own lips twitch in response.

"I still don't understand why you hate the boy so much," she said, driven at last by confusion and curiosity to risk a probable explosion. "Even as a baby. When Dumbledore hinted that you'd done something that helped save his life then, I thought it was because of you changing sides, because of...well...that girl. But you denied having even _wanted_ to save him."

"_That girl's_ name was Dora Hammond. Oh yes," he said, his eyes slashing toward her, as if intent on laying bare her reaction to this revelation. "I was obsessed enough to learn that much, and more. But..." his sharp gaze went dull and distant, "it was much more complicated than that." His hand convulsed into a fist against the chair arm.

Sarah was a little surprised at her own detachment, as she sat silently watching a dozen different expressions chase across his face. But the girl and his obsession with her was old news, a part of his past that she had, at some intervening point, come to terms with. Regardless of what had been, in those days when she herself had been a baby, he was hers now. Or she was his. Or something. She had no doubts anymore that he loved her. No matter what he had done or whom he had loved before.

"You aren't dismayed? _Disturbed?_" he sneered, seemingly bent on provoking some response from her.

"Do you _want_ me to be?"

He was taken aback, which naturally brought forth a snarl. "Why would you _not_ be? As easily upset as you are at present."

"I'm not the one who's upset at the moment," she pointed out, in as rational a tone as she could muster. "I'm curious, I admit, to know about these complications. But not curious enough to quarrel with you. Haven't we quarreled enough?"

He considered this, with gritted teeth. Finally, his jaw relaxing slightly, he said, "I don't wish to quarrel with you, Sarah. But remembering..." His face stiffened again with a mingling of anger and pain.

She stood up—his eyes followed her in surprise—and went to his wardrobe, hoping desperately that she was doing the right thing. When she placed another shot of the firewhiskey in his hands, then sank (more than a bit ungracefully) to the floor beside him, his expression told her that her instincts had been correct.

He swallowed it down with the same bitter-potion distaste as before, then let the empty glass hang loosely in his left hand, while his right reached out—as if seeking a means of steadying himself—to touch her hair. An unintentional sigh escaped her lips as she let her head fall against his knee.

"The...complications...go further back," he said, after a while. His fingers tightened, and Sarah winced, her hand going reflexively to her scalp. "Gods, I didn't intend to pull your hair," he said angrily.

"It's all right." She ran her hand quickly over her head, smoothing her hair back. She would have reached for his hand, then, if it had not occurred to her that neither of them would be pleased if he broke her fingers. So she let her hand rest on his knee in place of her head, and looked up at him anxiously.

"I told you, did I not, that Peter Pettigrew belonged to a gang of Gryffindors?" He took a deep breath, then said between his teeth, "The leader of that arrogant little crew was James Potter."

"Harry's_ father? _But—"

"Oh, Pettigrew was the only one who went over to the Dark Lord's side—although in secret. Potter, on the other hand, continued his _heroic_ career as a member of the Order, although that must have been a bit _dull_ after being a school Quidditch champion." The sarcasm in his voice was poisonous.

"You hate Harry because you hated his father?" As soon as she heard the astonishment in her own voice, she wished she could take it back. As petty as that might be, at least it was more understandable than simply picking out a random student upon whom to vent his crueler impulses.

"Hated..._hated?_" Severus muttered tightly. "The word does not begin to describe... They despised me from the first—a Slytherin, and visibly poor, and a dab hand with the Dark Arts. And then...they were the ones...who caught me..." His voice stuck in his throat; he did not say _crying for my mother's death, _but his next words made plain the circumstances. "I was _Snivellus _to themafter that...that moment of weakness. An irresistible target. Naturally, I fought back—it was nothing short of war. And I was far more clever at not being caught." A grim smirk crossed his face quickly and disappeared. "But it was four to one, always. Most of my own so-called 'friends' found it too amusing to simply watch. And of course none of them wanted to risk getting into trouble themselves."

It sounded far too much like what she remembered of her few interactions with other pureblood children. She had been luckier than she'd thought in her mother's protective charms. She could have easily attracted similar enemies from Slytherin House. Draco had been bad enough, the past few months...

Severus began again. "Sirius Black was Potter's best friend and second. And Remus Lupin was..." He trailed off. "He was part of their little foursome, and yet...and yet I'm supposed to believe that Lupin had nothing to do with it!" His voice was suddenly snarling again, and his fingers tightened on the glass until she feared it would break. "Black tried to kill me, in our sixth year. Lupin's _condition_ was a secret, but of course his friends knew all about it. Black taunted me into following Lupin one full-moon night..."

"Sweet Merlin!"

"They never got into the trouble they deserved—for that or anything else. Potter was too much the Golden Boy. Nobody believed him capable of true viciousness—even the students he picked on were made to feel, in the end, that they'd been part of some harmless prank, that they should feel flattered to have attracted the great Potter's attention. His misdeeds were counted merely as high spirits; mine, on the other hand, were all too obviously the actions of a Dark Wizard in the making."

"The teachers thought so? Even Professor Dumbledore?" Sarah was aghast.

She watched Severus take a sharp breath—the sort of breath she herself took when she was contemplating a lie. But finally he said, "The headmaster, I confess, was more worried than angry with me. So, I think, was my Head of House. But I was furious, when Potter and his friends got away with attempted murder and..." He went silent unexpectedly, his face taking on a strangely unreadable expression.

"I told you it was...complicated," he said. "In our seventh year, their persecution became more...subtle. Potter had begun to go with a girl who...she didn't approve of his bullying. But the 'Marauders'—oh yes, that _was_ their name for themselves—had one last grand 'prank' up their sleeves." His face had grown dark with anger as he spoke, but he broke off suddenly, and went silent. He began studying the glass instead of merely gripping it, but absently, as if it held no answers, only a means of temporary distraction.

"The girl was...she was as brilliant at Potions as she was stupid in her choice of a boyfriend."

"Your professor's first choice of an apprentice."

"Yes." He grimaced. "But she was more interested in marrying that...than in making something of her talents. And she wouldn't listen to me after..." His grip had tightened on the glass again.

"We weren't precisely...friends, but...Slughorn recognized the talent in both of us early on, and we were often thrown together because of it. I suppose we were as much friends as we were rivals. And..." he shot an uneasy glance at Sarah, "I had a certain amount of schoolboy interest in her. I thought I kept that well-hidden. Perhaps I did. It would be very like _them_ to think up something of the sort without provocation," he spat.

_What_, she wondered, _had they done to him?_

But his next words seem to go off in another direction. "Slughorn taught a potion to his N.E.W.T. students which I do not, but you may have read of it." He looked at her hard. "Amortentia?"

The most powerful love potion in existence. She had done some research into love potions, when he had first accused her of using something to attract him, if only to find a way to prove that she couldn't have done so. Amortentia was tricky to make, and almost hazardous in its strength. Unlike most love potions, which produced a temporary infatuation, Amortentia might take years to wear off completely, and the standard antidotes for love potions were only partially effective against it.

"Yes, I've read of it," she said, with an awful sinking feeling.

"It was given me, in my seventh year." His voice was a low, barely audible hiss. "I was never able to prove who did it, nor how they managed it, although I'm certain Potter was involved. It would have amused him and his friends to see me making a fool of myself over his girlfriend. To taunt me with the fact that he had yet another thing I would never have."

As distracted as he was, Sarah was surprised that he noticed her quizzical and slightly injured expression. "I did not mean—"

"I know," she said, those few words soothing her feelings more than she thought possible. "How long did it take you to realize...?" The idea of Severus mooning and fawning over anyone—an action so uncharacteristic of his usual manner—was painful to contemplate.

"Not long, fortunately," he huffed. "Slughorn recognized the change in my behavior immediately, and gave me an antidote. But, of course, the damage was done. Not merely the embarrassment, which the entire class witnessed." His eyes went distant for a moment, as if he had been reminded of something else, but he blinked and it was gone. "The effects of Amortentia...linger, in spite of any antidote. It was only upon realizing that, after half a dozen different antidotes had not erased the...impairment...it became clear that it _had_ been Amortentia. I was _furious_." His face darkened again with rage.

"I believed at first that Lily must have been involved. She had the skill to make the potion, and she could have supplied the necessary strand of hair to make herself the focus. I didn't want to believe it, of course, because of the damned potion. I even..." he hesitated, studying Sarah doubtfully. But he must have been satisfied with what he saw, because he continued. "I went to her home, over the Christmas holiday. To accuse her, I thought—I even threatened her with Azkaban—although I was eager enough to accept her denial of her guilt. What I wanted most was for her to implicate Potter—I even hoped that, away from his influence..." He shook his head sharply, as if trying to rid himself of the memory. "As I'm sure you can imagine, I was not in my right mind. _I hated Potter for that_, more than anything he'd done before." The glass, which Sarah had been watching for some time with trepidation, finally flashed out of his hand and into the fireplace. The crash seemed a fitting punctuation. "I was even more ready to cast in my lot with the Dark Lord, if it also meant a chance to take Potter down."

He turned his eyes, still brimming with remembered fury, upon her. "And now, I suppose, you'll hate me for all of this." But his voice, angry and accusatory as it was, faltered near the end of this pronouncement.

"It was hardly your fault that you were drugged with a powerful and dangerous potion. How could I possible hate you for that?"

He leaned forward unexpectedly, clasping her awkwardly, the firewhiskey pungent on his breath. She couldn't quite hear what he murmured against her hair. It sounded like, _I don't know_.

"There's more," he said, much too soon, letting her go and sitting back, his eyes leaving her, to wander in dark paths of memory. "I sought to turn my mind from her, but the potion only slackened its hold slowly. That whole year with Cassilda, I saw only Lily in my mind. And then..." he buried his face against his left hand, where he was leaning on the chair arm. "It was no coincidence, I think, that I became obsessed with Dora Hammond. She looked...very much like Lily. And I wanted so very badly to stop wanting Potter's wife." He slammed his right hand down on the chair arm, nearly in Sarah's face, and she jolted back. He blinked, and forced out a slow breath.

"I thought I had shaken off the potion. But when I discovered that the Dark Lord had decided the child of the prophecy was Lily's...I...found it impossible not to do something. My misjudgment had put her life in danger. After Dora..." He leaned his head back against the chair, letting it tilt aimlessly from side to side. "I don't know. I don't know anymore. But I was not willing to simply let her die.

"I had already lost one chance to speak to Albus Dumbledore, the night Trelawney made her prophecy—"

"_Trelawney?_" Sarah had not intended to interrupt, but...Trelawney.

Severus looked at her, a sneer forming on his lips. "Ah, yes, our resident madwoman. Who could have imagined?"

Sarah shook her head. "You went to Dumbledore again?"

"Yes. It was a terrible risk. I had hoped, when I had volunteered for the Dark Lord's assignment to apply for the Dark Arts position, the headmaster would understand what I wanted, would offer me a means of escape from the life I had chosen. But that chance was lost. And to go to him, months later, without permission—if I were discovered... But I could do nothing else."

And yet, Sarah realized, cold settling into the pit of her stomach, Harry's parents had died. There could be no happy ending to this story. She bit her lip.

Severus shifted restlessly. "Dumbledore assured me Lily would be protected. And he gave me the chance I sought—with Professor Slughorn retiring, it was logical for him to recommend one of his top students for the position. Dumbledore knew I was seeking employment, and his forgiving nature... The Dark Lord was too eager for a spy inside Hogwarts, to question it further.

"But I was not the Dark Lord's only spy. As that summer went on, it became clear that someone else was giving information to him about members of the Order...particularly about..." He ground his teeth. "The danger to them grew significant, but the Dark Lord's practice of keeping his servants' identities secret prevented me from learning who was responsible.

"I had taken the risk, when the Dark Lord began plotting to destroy the Potter child, of revealing both my hatred of Potter and my...my interest in his wife. I hoped...I don't know what I hoped...to learn more of his plans, to be included in them, to have the chance to..." Severus paused for a long moment, his expression stricken. "It was too late...too late to warn anyone, when he finally summoned us and revealed that he was about to act, that the Potters had been betrayed into his hands. Halloween night."

Sarah's eyes widened, but Severus did not seem to notice. "He permitted me to go with him... I asked..." His throat closed up around his voice, and his hands, which had already tightened into fists, grew white as bone at the knuckles. "I asked him to spare Lily—a boon, for my role in bringing him the prophecy. She was to be mine, to do with as I saw fit."

Sarah breath caught, audibly, and she studied her husband's fierce face, cold dread pouring down her spine.

He looked at her then, his lips curling brutally. "She refused to stand aside. It was not even from fear of me...not even that—he didn't tell her why he was giving her a chance to live. I suppose she might have guessed, from my presence there. It was that child," he spat the words, "_his_ child, she sacrificed her life for. All my risks, all my efforts had been for nothing!"

"But then..." Sarah was scrambling for her mental footing. "That was the magic that protected...that threw the Killing Curse back on the Dark Lord? Is that what Dumbledore meant?"

"Yes," Severus snarled. "And we are all meant to be _grateful_ for it."

Sarah blinked rapidly. Could he really mean that he was sorry the Dark Lord had fallen that night? Or was it his grief speaking, because of Lily Potter? Only a few minutes ago, Sarah had believed that nothing could make her feel threatened again by the loss of his love. But now _she_ was nothing; she was forgotten. At best, he was still lost in a past where she had not yet existed.

"You tried to save her," she whispered, hardly knowing what she was saying, only wanting somehow to heal the pain that his soul was knotted around. "You risked your own life—"

"It was the potion!" Then he shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps... Dumbledore believed the potion was no longer in effect. By then I could no longer tell. When I was in the Dark Lord's presence, I wanted to take her for my own, to force her to see that I... I had to project that emotion. It may have been real. It was...now it...it is impossible to tell."

"You tried to save her," Sarah repeated, her own fear and anguish made less by the confusion in his voice. "That was what Dumbledore meant, wasn't it? If you hadn't asked for her life—"

"That is _Dumbledore's_ opinion. He believes if she had not been given the choice, the ancient magic would not have operated. The Dark Lord would have killed her, and then the boy, and that would have been the finish of his precious prophecy."

The whole ironic picture fell into place: in a sense, it was Severus who had saved the boy's life (although, admittedly, he had put it at risk to begin with). He had incited the circumstances that resulted in Harry Potter's survival...but at the cost of the life of the woman he had... Had he loved Lily Potter? Or was it the potion? Or was it Dora Hammond's death? Or all three together? In any event, his actions had—all unintended—made a hero of the son of his most hated enemy.

"Do not believe for a moment, Sarah, that I intended to save anyone's life but Lily's. I even," he shot her a challenging look, "left the boy in the ruins of the house. I did not care if he lived or died." His face fell, and he shut his eyes convulsively, tilting his head back. "I did not care if _I_ lived or died. I stumbled back to Dumbledore and... I let him watch it all, in the Pensieve. And then I went back into my classroom two days later to keep students from blowing up the dungeons, as if none of it had mattered."

It _did_ matter, she wanted to tell him. But in spite of the disconsolate tone of the ending of his narrative, she knew he did not want to hear her say that. It had not mattered in the ways he had wanted it to matter. And there was no help for that now.

"Don't imagine your knowing this changes _anything_ between young Potter and myself," Severus said sharply, his eyes fixed on her again. Perhaps he had misread her silence; perhaps he was misreading her expression. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red. Likely it was the lack of sleep and the firewhiskey, but it made him look as if he had freshly suffered the terrible anguish he had just recounted.

"I don't expect it to," Sarah said, shaking her head. She laid her hand carefully on his scarcely relaxed fist. Then, suspecting what he feared most, she added, "Nor does it change anything between you and me." _Dear Merlin, I hope that's true_.

His face twisted doubtfully. "Undoubtedly your mind is still too clouded from the past day's experiences to—"

"_My_ mind clouded? I've had a little sleep and no firewhiskey—"

"Don't tell me you feel _nothing_ after hearing this!" he accused.

What _did_ she feel? Was he right that, after the end of their long argument and the night's business of creeping about the school, she was in no frame of mind to think through the implications of his story?

_What implications?_ she asked herself impatiently. He had told her things she hadn't known, yes, but nothing that substantially altered the picture she had formed by now of his nature and character. Indeed, it seemed that he had suffered a good deal more during the dark years of his youth than she had ever supposed.

"Of course I feel something! I feel sor—"

"_Sorry_ for me?" he hissed. "Why _should_ you?" He turned away, his face a mask of disgust, though whether at her or at himself it was difficult to say.

"Why are you determined to push me away!" She drew her hand back in irritation.

The expression that formed on his face was genuine surprise, although still tinted with distrust. "You have been upset at the things I've told you before now," he accused.

"Maybe I've become immune," she said sourly.

"It doesn't bother you that I abandoned a child? Would willingly have let him die?" His eyes burned brighter, and his lips twisted nastily.

_Oh_.

She had been too involved in his story, in his anger and grief, to extend his behavior beyond the moment he had been describing. "Not your own son. You wouldn't." _But Harry could have been his son, had things been different_. The thought caught and tangled in her heart. She curled her hand protectively over her stomach.

"You dare say so?"

It had been a very long time since he had warned her that he could kill her if it proved necessary, but she could not helping remembering it now. Was his resolve still that strong? Sanity did not allow her to think about such things too hard—he had taught her that. She stiffened her spine. "I _do_ dare say so. You have never given me any reason to believe our child means less to you than I do." She grimaced inwardly. _Quite the opposite_.

"If you believe I couldn't—" he began threateningly.

"Why do you want to hurt me? To frighten me?" she asked, exasperated. "I've listened to all this, and I've not accused you of anything. I've not questioned your motives. I _have_ felt sorry for you, damn it! Are you so determined that no one is on your side that you can't see that _I_ am?"

She saw the shock in his eyes, the subtle shift of his expression from hostility to guilt, and she buried her face against his knees, tears leaking out unresisted. She felt his hand touch her hair, and a bubble of anxiety welled up in her, unrecognized until this moment.

She lifted her head. "Do I look like her?"

_How long might that potion last?_

"No," he said bluntly.

"Not at all?" she pressed, not trusting the way his face had closed up again at the question.

"Not at all." There was a hint of relief in his voice that belied his expression. She wanted to ask what Lily had looked like—the color of her hair, the color of her eyes—but she didn't. With a sigh, she laid her head in his lap and closed her own hazel eyes as he stroked her plain brown hair. He shuddered slightly, now and again, as the horrible tension drained out of his muscles. It was not unlike the movements of his child within her.

"I want to give you a happier ending," she whispered.

He snorted faintly. "There are no happy endings, Sarah. Only..." he drew his fingers out of her hair, and slid them under her chin, lifted her face so he could see it, "...moments of grace."

* * *

**A/N:** While you're in the mood for Snape revelations (if you still are!), I would like to point you in the direction of Lady Whitehart's "A Single Strand," which is newly available here on ffnet. It's a fun ficlet from Snape's PoV, about his discovery that Sarah is pregnant and his plans for dealing with that fact. Lady Whitehart is much better at writing from Snape's PoV than I am, and I gave her my blessings to run with this plot bunny when it bit her. (If you haven't read her story "Shadow on My Heart," you should.) I'm tremendously flattered and honored that she'd want to write a fic about my fic. 


	49. Ch 48: Try to Forgive

**Obligatory Disclaimer: **Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Fan-fiction is all in fun. Besides, it wouldn't be worth it to sue me—I don't have any money.

**A/N:** Sorry about the long delays lately. All my good intentions have come to naught. On the other hand, I am more or less "caught up" on this story, even if I'm writing at a slower pace than before. So I thank you all for your patience!

I'd also like to give special thanks to my reviewers: Samantha-Ives, Lady Whitehart, Ray Dragon, Darla, Bellegeste, lucidity, cecelle, Trish and AlanaRose12. Your input makes sticking with this story through thick and thin a lot easier and more enjoyable for me. And extra thanks to cecelle and Lady Whitehart for their willing and helpful beta-ing. (Congrats to Lady Whitehart on getting Honorable Mention in the Sycophant-Hex Death Day Festival for her story "Meant to Be...Enemies?"!)

It's time for a little change of pace, after all these chapters of stress, strain and theory. I hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

**Chapter 48: Try to Forgive**

Sarah would have been happy to stay indefinitely in the Potions master's quarters. But apart from the fact that, at some point in the night, Severus would be summoned to meet with the Dark Lord, there was also the problem that at least one person (contrary to Dumbledore's assertion) would be very curious about where she was.

Angelina.

The girl had come down after her last night. Based on where they had encountered Angelina, she had probably gone first to the hospital wing and, not finding Sarah there, had proceeded to search for her further downstairs. If she had been so discombobulated by the news that her formerly half-ignored dorm mate was pregnant that she would risk breaking curfew to find out more, it was going to be almost impossible to avoid her for very long.

As much as Sarah had come to prefer the refuge of the hospital wing, it was the perfect place for Angelina to corner her and demand more information before she had worked out a reasonable story. Only the constant presence of other people would prevent the girl from questioning her on the spot. And the only place that afforded the company she needed in order to avoid that was Gryffindor Tower.

Sarah went up to the hospital wing shortly before dinner, not entirely sure that Madam Pomfrey would concede to her moving back into her dorm room. But when she came through the double doors, it was clear that the medi-witch had enough other patients to worry about. The six beds at the far end of the ward were occupied. Five of them were students. Sarah thought she recognized Potter's friends, Ron Weasley—who was heavily bandaged—and Hermione Granger. The other boy must be Neville Longbottom. There were two other girls as well, one with red hair (wasn't there a Weasley sister in Gryffindor?) and the other with long, pale hair. All of them seemed to be asleep or unconscious.

And in the sixth bed lay Dolores Umbridge.

Sarah flinched when she saw the woman, fearful of being subjected to another tirade or even blamed for what had happened. But Madam Pomfrey was leaning over to check on their erstwhile headmistress, and the response she was getting showed that Umbridge was in no frame of mind to berate anybody. When the medi-witch called her by name, the dumpy form on the bed made only vague groaning noises. Pomfrey reached out to pluck something from the woman's hair, but at the touch, Umbridge's arms began flailing about. This did not, however, seem to revive her, and when Pomfrey drew back, she lapsed into the same incoherence as before.

All the same, Sarah waited patiently for Madam Pomfrey to finish, coughing softly so that she would notice her.

"What's the matter?" The medi-witch bustled over to her, her face set in a determined frown, as if she expected nothing but more disasters.

"I'm fine," Sarah assured her. "I was just...thinking about moving back up to the dormitory for the rest of the year. It seems a bit...crowded here." She let her eyes go pointedly past the other woman toward the densely occupied end of the ward.

"I suppose I no longer really have any good excuse for keeping you here, with exams over. Goodness knows you look well enough now. But I expect you to take care of yourself properly and come back if you feel at all ill." When Sarah gave her promise, Pomfrey added, "You can send my..._equipment_...back by owl when you're finished with it."

Sarah took her leave of the hospital wing and its matron, with a whispered word of thanks that felt more earnest than she expected it to. Carrying her few accumulated possessions in a bundle, she made her way (slowly) up to Gryffindor Tower, praying she didn't run into Angelina alone anywhere along the way.

* * *

As it turned out, she managed to elude a private conversation with her dorm mate well into Saturday afternoon. Although Angelina gave her several meaningful and questioning glances, both at meals and in their room, Sarah managed to engineer her own comings and goings to ensure that the two of them were never alone. She even pretended to be asleep late that night (not that she _could_ sleep, for worry) when the other girl called to her in a whisper. 

Severus looked reasonably pleased with himself at breakfast on Saturday, and Sarah assumed that his interview with the Dark Lord had gone well. But she was desperately anxious to hear the details. It was frustrating that she dared not go down to his room until everyone else was soundly asleep...if then.

What _could_ she tell Angelina?

After lunch, Sarah went out onto the grounds, sitting and soaking up the warm afternoon sunshine, trying to work it out. She was having a difficult time trying to find some reasonable excuse that would have taken her via Portkey (she could not assume that Angelina hadn't heard the pop) to Gryffindor Tower, but back downstairs on foot...not to the infirmary, but in the direction of the dungeons.

A set of footsteps scuffing through the grass approached and did not pass by. Sarah looked up. Her time for thinking was over.

"Want company?" Angelina asked, a little uncertainly. Sarah had tried not to be obvious in avoiding her, but she must have noticed.

"Of course." Forcing a grin, Sarah patted the ground next to her, and Angelina folded herself down onto it.

"It's hard to believe that we're really finished," Sarah said wistfully; she wanted to try to set the direction and tone of this conversation herself. "Did you say you were going to work for your mum?"

"Yeah. Unless I miraculously get an owl from the Holyhead Harpies."

Honestly unable to evaluate Angelina's Quidditch skills, Sarah could only say, "I guess we can hope? I mean, you _were_ captain."

Angelina shrugged. "The evaluators were here a lot earlier in the spring. And I haven't heard a thing. I won't mind working with my mum. There's worse things than making charms." She paused for a long moment, her expression hesitant. "What about you? Or are you going to try to tell me I was imaging things the other night?"

That would be the most convenient thing. But she had as much as admitted her condition to Angelina that night. And even if she hadn't, she did not think Angelina would believe her.

"No, you weren't imagining things."

Angelina was studying her apparently flat stomach. "How are you hiding it?"

"Magical girdle." If they had been closer for longer, she might have shown it off.

"Wicked. But does Pomfrey know? How can she not?"

"Of course she knows. I couldn't keep that from her, all these weeks in the infirmary."

"Did she tell on you?"

_Good question. Come on, Sarah, what's the answer?_

"Well, she sort of had to. But she and McGonagall agreed that this close to the end of the year, it wasn't worth expelling me. And she'd hardly want to tell Umbridge anyway."

"Do you think she'll tell Dumbledore, now he's back?"

Sarah shook her head. "I hope not."

"But what about you? What are you going to do? You said you'd broken up and..."

"We made up."

"But his family? Your aunt? I...well, I suppose you won't tell me now who he is?" Angelina frowned sheepishly.

"He'd never forgive me," Sarah said, shaking her head. "Anyway, his family _does_ seem to be getting over it. My aunt is another matter. But at least _his_ family is going to help us now. It really will be all right." _Please, let it be all right_.

"I hope so." Angelina looked dubious. "I just don't understand why you'd let this happen, Sarah. With your families and all. And he'll still be at Hogwarts for...a year? two? Gads, I hope you're not robbing the cradle any worse than that."

"I didn't exactly do this on purpose, Angelina! I didn't know how to prevent it—"

"Really?" Angelina was surprised. "You should have asked me!"

"I didn't know there was anything to ask about! I grew up with a maiden aunt, remember?"

"But you know Potions..."

"I know. But by the time I realized it... I know it was foolish, but I just couldn't...well, do away with it." Sarah grimaced genuinely.

"And your boyfriend's okay with becoming a father when he's still at school?"

"He didn't exactly have a choice, did he?" _Except for Imperius and Obliviation_. "He accepted the idea. Pureblood families are always worried about getting heirs."

"And so his family really has accepted you?" Angelina still looked doubtful.

"Well, despite the fact that I'm a Gryffindor myself, I _am_ one of the last members of a very old Dark Wizarding family. And since I'm carrying their family's heir, they can hardly kick up too much of a fuss."

"You're going to live with them?" The other girl was appalled.

"Well, no. I got a Potions apprenticeship. They're just going to take care of the baby until..." _think fast, Sarah_, "until we can be properly married."

"So he isn't marrying you yet?" The disapproval was obvious.

"Well...we'll be married this summer, but obviously we can't live together yet, you know?"

"And they're letting you do an apprenticeship? I didn't think pureblood families allowed things like that."

"I sort of...insisted." This was getting further and further from the truth, and it made Sarah uncomfortable. The safest lie was always the one that was nearly true. "I didn't want to live with them until he—my boyfriend—is there to protect me."

"But you're trusting them with your baby?"

Sarah sighed in frustration. "Angelina, I know this situation. I know what I need to do, okay?"

Angelina grimaced. "I hope so, Sarah." Then she asked the question Sarah had hoped she would not: "Where's the apprenticeship?"

Tired of lies—and worried that Angelina might discover this one all too easily—Sarah admitted, "Here at Hogwarts, actually."

"Really? Even though McGonagall knows...I mean, she'd still recommend you?"

Damn, she had forgotten that little twist! Her brains were turning to mush...not a good thing in her current situation.

"Well, she didn't know when I applied. And it's not really for her to say, as it's a Potions apprenticeship. And as well as I'm sure I did on my Potions N.E.W.T., I could get an apprenticeship anywhere. But this way I get to stay at Hogwarts, so we don't have to be, well, you know, separated."

"So you're still going to risk being caught? An apprentice with a student?" Angelina was incredulous.

"I won't get caught. I haven't _been_ caught."

"What about Snape the other night?"

"He only caught me in the halls, not doing anything else."

"I'm surprised he didn't cancel your apprenticeship then and there. In fact, I'm surprised he's taking on an apprentice at all."

"No more surprised than me," Sarah said.

Angelina's face had taken on a thoughtful expression, and now she leaned her chin on her hand. "You know, for a minute there the other night, I _almost_ got the impression that you had snuck down to meet _Snape_. Which is the most awful idea." She grinned in mock disgust.

Sarah leaned on her own hand. "Yes, Angelina, that is a really awful idea." _One you should not have in any way, shape or form._

A little too much earnestness must have leaked into Sarah's voice, in spite of her attempt to keep her tone light. Or else, even without that trigger, something had finally clicked in Angelina's brain. Because Angelina's eyes widened and her grin faded.

"You hadn't, had you?" But the note of panic and the growing comprehension in the girl's eyes made it plain that she would not be fooled by further lies, no matter how comforting. "My God, Sarah, it's _Snape_ you've been meeting?"

Sarah put a finger to her lips, glancing around in dismay. Fortunately, no one was near them. Fortunately, too, Angelina took the hint.

"How could you...the things you told me..." Her voice was lower, but there was a hint of hurt in it.

"I could hardly tell you the truth, could I?" Sarah protested.

"But..._Snape?_" Her posture had stiffened, and there was real disgust on her face. "How could you even let that greasy git _touch_ you?" An even more awful thought seemed to occur to her. "Was it to get the _apprenticeship?_"

"No! How could you even think I'd do that?"

"I don't know." The girl frowned. "I'm beginning to wonder if I even know you at all."

Now it was Sarah's turn to feel hurt.

"I've never made any comments about the boys you've gone with, Angelina."

"_Boys_, Sarah. Not...you know Snape could get _sacked_ for messing with a student?"

"You promised me you wouldn't tell!"

Angelina lowered her head into her arms, which were wrapped around her knees. "Okay," she said after a moment. "I promised. But I don't understand, Sarah." She raised her head just enough to fix Sarah with a puzzled gaze. "It isn't just that he's old, or a teacher. He's..._Snape_. You know: mean, hateful, spiteful?"

"I _do_ know. But...I'm not sure I can even begin to explain." Sarah sighed.

"Did he, well, hex you or give you a potion or something?"

"He saved my life, alright? On Halloween night, during the Potions field trip. I can't tell you any more about that, because I promised the headmaster I wouldn't. But he saved my life."

"And that's how he demanded you repay him?" Angelina was aghast.

"No! Look, Angelina, there's more to..." No, a simple exaggeration of the truth would be better than trying to convince the other girl of the Potions master's hidden qualities...even if she could think of any. She grimaced. "My mother did some kind of magic to me when I was little. And when he saved my life, it triggered it. We _had_ to fall in love with each other."

From the expression on Angelina's face, she seemed both unconvinced that Severus Snape was capable of falling in love with anyone, spell-compelled or not, and appalled that Sarah had fallen prey to such a spell. "You couldn't get someone to break the spell?" she asked. "Or did the spell keep you from wanting to? Are you still under it?"

"No, I'm not. And it wasn't that simple of a spell," Sarah said. "Even if it were, who could we have gone to? As you said, he would be sacked."

"Even though it was a spell?"

"By the time we figured out it was a spell, we didn't...well, we didn't want to stop."

Angelina wrinkled her forehead. "That must have been some spell, Sarah. I mean, don't tell me you really enjoyed..."

Sarah was out of patience. "Okay, I'll tell you the truth, Angelina. The spell didn't make us _do_ anything. It just made us notice each other. And yes, I _did_ enjoy it. A man doesn't have to be handsome or nice or...or anything to be worth knowing or...or being with."

This muddled but earnest defense seemed to have more impact on Angelina that any of the sensible half-truths Sarah had given her so far. The girl sighed, frowning in reluctant acceptance.

"You're sure about the spell?"

"Yes!"

"I'm half-tempted to drag you back to Madam Pomfrey to make sure. I know I promised." Angelina held up her hand. "I'm just worried that someday you'll come to your senses and think 'Oh, no! What have I _done?_'"

"I've already been through that stage." Sarah couldn't keep an ironic smile from twisting at her lips. "What I really need you to do is _never tell a soul_. I mean it, Angelina," she said, when girl looked as if she wanted to equivocate. "It isn't just me and Snape who would get into trouble. Can you imagine what the Ministry would do to Professor Dumbledore?" Sarah privately imagined that, after Thursday night, that danger was probably past. But Angelina might not realize that, and it might help her keep her mouth shut this time.

"Okay, I see what you mean," Angelina said. "But that would be the wildest piece of gossip ever."

"Angelina! I thought I could trust you!"

"Alright, I'm sorry. And I'm sorry about before. I've already promised. I'll promise again if you want. I won't tell a soul." The girl crossed her heart.

Sarah let out a tense sigh, and the two girls sat looking ruefully at each other for a long minute.

"Um..." Angelina raised her eyebrows. "So...was _anything_ you told me true?"

"In a sense." Sarah winced in guilt. "Although it's really _my_ family who is most upset."

"They _know?_"

"Yes, but they have good reason not to tell anyone. Don't ask what—you wouldn't want to know, I promise."

"Has he _got_ family?" Angelina's incredulity was blatant...and understandable. Sarah would never have imagined...

"Yes, and they're nicer than you'd imagine." She was not, however, about to give out any details: the fewer people who knew that Severus Snape had grown up in Knockturn Alley, the better.

"Are you going to stay with them for the summer, then? Or stay here? Well, no..." Angelina corrected herself. "I guess you couldn't do that. Or... Who do Pomfrey and McGonagall think the father is?"

Sarah hated to tell Angelina any more lies, but this one was necessary. "A Muggle boy named Michael who lives in my aunt's village. And yes, he's taking me to stay with his family for the summer."

Angelina shook her head. "That is still just so...weird to contemplate." The girl's eyes strayed to Sarah's innocent-looking stomach. "When will you, you know, have it?"

"In August."

"Boy or girl?"

"Boy."

Angelina shook her head, lowering it back into her arms. "Honestly, this weirds me out more than I can say."

"Maybe it's better if you just don't think about it."

The girl huffed softly. "You're so right. I think I'd better just imagine you with the Muggle boy."

"It isn't like you and I will see each other again after this week," Sarah pointed out. "Except by accident in Diagon Alley."

"That's really awful to think of, isn't it? After all these years in school together, taking it for granted, and now we have to make special efforts just to—"

"_Miss Darkglass?_"

Sarah froze at the sound of the voice behind her. Neither of them had heard him come up. She truly hoped he hadn't been standing there very long. Not that she would have been able to keep the gist of this conversation from him, but she would have preferred to skim over the details. She turned her head slowly, expecting him to be furious.

"Yes, Professor?"

His expression was one of those puzzles—not precisely angry, more concerned, and yet upset as well.

"The headmaster wishes to see you in his office," he said curtly.

Sarah could not help glancing at Angelina, wondering what the girl must be thinking. The look Angelina shot back asked a multitude of questions: _are you finally caught? or is this an excuse for (oh, horrors) a tryst? how can he? right in front of me? how can you? what if...?_

"As entertaining as I'm sure your conversation is," his tone was acid, "your attendance is required at once."

"Yes, sir." Sarah scrambled awkwardly to her feet. "Later, Angelina?"

Angelina's eyes remained wide, and her answer was the shortest of nods.

* * *

Sarah knew better than to ask Severus anything as they crossed the grounds, although she was fairly bursting with anxiety over what he might have heard. Having to wait—possibly for hours—before he exploded at her was far more nerve-wracking than if he had been able to shout at her immediately. And surely she would have to warn Professor Dumbledore that Angelina had guessed the truth. Would it be necessary to Obliviate the girl? She didn't think, somehow, that Dumbledore would do that to anyone, if there were any way to avoid it. 

What could Dumbledore need to speak to her about? Threads of panic ran through her, wondering if last night's interview with the Dark Lord had gone less well than she had thought. But a surreptitious study of Severus's expression and posture didn't suggest that sort of bad news. Had the headmaster decided firmly to give him the Dark Arts position? But why bring her in to discuss it again?

Her thoughts bouncing like rubber balls, she followed in the Potions master's wake, only vaguely aware of occasional pitying glances from other students. And all the while, Severus led her along with a muteness that was curious even for him, saying nothing to her, even when they reached the entrance to the headmaster's office. Was this taciturnity simply because he was angry with her? Was he afraid of losing his temper where anyone might see or hear something they shouldn't?

"Ah, Severus...and Sarah," Dumbledore greeted them. He looked less weary and frail than he had yesterday morning, but his expression was grave. "Please, Sarah, sit down."

She sank into the chair, her puzzlement growing when Severus took up a station behind her rather than sitting himself. More curiously still, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Headmaster," Severus said, "You should know that Angelina Johnson has become aware of our...connection. Or so I must suppose," he added sourly.

"She guessed it for herself," Sarah admitted.

Professor Dumbledore studied her over the tops of his half moon spectacles. "I will speak to Miss Johnson. Do your other dorm mates suspect anything?"

"No." Sarah shook her head firmly.

"Then leave the matter to me." He aimed this comment more particularly at Severus. But his attention returned quickly to Sarah.

"I am always sorry when I must call a student into my office to report unhappy news. And I regret it all the more, since this is not the first time I have done so with you." The headmaster's voice and expression conveyed real sorrow, and Sarah found herself thinking involuntarily of another day, more than six years ago...icy cold crept through her, even before the headmaster went on. "This morning I learned that your aunt, Portia Plattus, was found dead in her home yesterday afternoon."

Sarah felt as if she had been struck unawares by a Stupefy spell. Aunt Portia. Dead.

"What happened?" she asked numbly. Aunt Portia was never ill._ Did my defection affect her so badly...?_

"It would appear," Dumbledore said carefully, "that she was murdered."

"Why would anyone...?" Sarah stiffened. "Did the Dark Lord...?"

"Not to my knowledge," Severus said.

"Then who...?" _Even _I_ never wished her dead_...

"That remains unknown," Dumbledore said. "The Auror who investigated the incident believes that Death Eaters may have been involved, although no Dark Mark was left over the house. That would not be surprising, however, since up to now they have been attempting to keep their activities secret, rather than flaunting them. And certainly the spell used to kill her was Avada Kedavra."

Sarah leaned her forehead on her hand, her mind awhirl with horrible thoughts. "Was she...did they torture her?" She felt Severus' hand tighten on her shoulder.

"Most likely not, from what I understand."

Sarah breathed out a strangled sigh.

"However, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have been unable to determine why she would have been a target. Her body was found by a friend who had come to visit her. A Mrs. Catharine Catchlove. Do you know her?"

Sarah nodded. Another older woman, an old school friend of her aunt's, who came to tea with some regularity.

"She insists that Miss Plattus had no known enemies. And while your aunt's disapproval of your recent behavior would not make her a friend to any Death Eaters, there is also no obvious reason why she would be the target of an attack. Unless you know something we do not?" Dumbledore asked. "When was the last time you were in contact with her?"

"Months ago." Sarah shook her head. They would never have a chance to make things up now. Aunt Portia had died hating her. Or at least thinking she was impossibly foolish. _I hurt her, and now I can never make it up_...

"And you know of no reason why anyone would kill her?"

The word 'no' was on the tip of Sarah's tongue when a realization struck her, like a neglected potion blowing up in her face.

"Oh, no," she whispered. Tears came to her eyes, white hot. "Dear God, _no!_"

"What is it, Sarah?" Dumbledore's query was gentle but firm. But she could hardly hear him for her own sobbing.

"It's my fault! Oh, _no_." She covered her face with her hands. It was unbearable that anyone should see her. She was a horrible person. _Horrible!_

"How could it be your fault?" Severus asked impatiently. But then, suddenly, he said, "Nott. _Damn it!_"

"What is it, Severus?" Dumbledore asked.

But it was Sarah who answered, the words gasped out between sobs. "I told...Uncle Franklin...about the...the money... I made him...promise...to give me a...a thousand Galleons."

"And clearly," Severus finished rancorously, "he decided there was a solution that did not require him to loosen his own purse strings."

"Money was involved?"

"Portia Plattus, in an attempt to control—or at least punish—her niece's behavior, cut off her allowance."

"I see," said Dumbledore. "Yes, I recall now that a sum of money was part of the agreement that Sarah was forced to make with Franklin Nott and Bellatrix Lestrange. And you believe that your uncle, in an attempt to avoid making that payment, murdered your aunt?"

"I didn't _have_ to ask for the money," Sarah said, still in tears. "I just...I didn't want to be a...a burden. If I hadn't..." _Dear God, no!_

"Sarah," Dumbledore urged gently, "there was no possible way you could have guessed that your uncle would take such an action."

Sarah shook her head frantically. "I should have known. I should have realized."

"You had not seen the man since you were nine years old," Severus interrupted.

"Indeed," Dumbledore went on, "you were in a very difficult position. Kidnapped and threatened, no one could expect you to consider every possible outcome."

"Yes, they could!" she denied. "Severus would! It's my job to consider every possible outcome. And I didn't..." She lapsed back into sobs.

This time, the headmaster remained silent.

"Sarah..." Severus began.

"No, Severus. Let her cry it out."

With a small, impatient noise, he made to draw his hand away from her shoulder. But she caught it and held it, pressing it to her damp cheek.

It was not very long before the chill of grief and the sharpness of guilt gave way to the fires of anger. _Uncle Franklin will pay for this!_ It was with a jolt that she remembered Franklin Nott was already in Azkaban.

Sarah sniffed back the last of her tears and lifted her eyes to Professor Dumbledore. "How can I make sure my uncle is held responsible?"

"I will report this information to my contacts in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Dumbledore said. "It may be necessary for you to make a statement."

Sarah nodded.

"We need to consider carefully what it is safe for her to say," Severus pointed out.

"Yes, of course. I hope the investigation will be able to proceed without that. However," Dumbledore added, "there will be a great deal of legal business to conduct, with respect to Sarah's inheritance. If you will permit, Sarah, I shall make arrangements for these matters to be taken care of quietly and with as little fuss as possible."

Sarah nodded again, hardly able to consider what might be involved.

"If you feel the need for more time to collect yourself before you go back among your fellow students, you are welcome to remain in my office. I cannot, however, promise to entertain you." Dumbledore's eyes, though expressing real regret, twinkled faintly. "I have been too long absent, and I have a great deal to catch up on."

"Perhaps some tea?" Severus suggested, more to Dumbledore than to her.

"Yes, of course."

In a few minutes, Sarah was settled in a squishy chair in front of the fireplace, with a cup in her hand. The warm liquid sliding down her throat at intervals was the only thing that seemed real. The headmaster was reading through a tall stack of papers on his desk. She half-expected Severus to excuse himself, but he was leaning against the mantle, staring into the low flames with a grim expression.

"You don't have to stay with me," Sarah said quietly, predicting his impatience. "I know you have exams to grade."

"I wasn't thinking of examinations."

"I'm quite alright now. Or I will be in a minute," she added, as he turned and saw through her words.

"Will you?"

Sarah took a deep breath and looked away. "How do you bear it?" She would not have asked such a bitter question, but the very little he was pressing her seemed suddenly too much. "Knowing you're responsible for someone's death?"

She heard the faint scratching of the headmaster's quill pause for an instant and then go on.

"You hardly intended—" Severus said sharply.

"I know. I just—" She looked up.

His eyes were blazing.

"Don't assume that you have ever experienced—"

"Please," she begged, "don't speak harshly to me. Not now." Tears rose to the surface again. "I'm sorry. I know you've done worse things, but..."

He turned back to the mantel abruptly. But in a moment she saw his shoulders drop ever so slightly.

"It is more difficult to bear," he whispered. "When you do harm you never intended."

* * *

**A/N:** Up next—finally leaving Hogwarts. Didn't think we'd _ever_ get there, did you? ;) 


	50. Ch 49: Stay by My Side, Guide Me!

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Surely you can't have gotten this far without realizing that I'm not pretending to be J. K. Rowling and I'm not making any money from this story?

**A/N:** First I'd like to apologize for the long wait. My final-typo-checker has been ill, which means this chapter was delayed more than I meant it to be. And alas, I can't promise that things will speed up any. We're going to be moving in about a month, which is going to create its own stresses. But I will press on!

As always, I want to thank my great reviewers: Jenni Lecil, Salienne de Lioncourt, Darla, Bailey, beccarll, lucidity, cecelle, Lady Whitehart, TessaCilory, morwen24, AlanaRose12 and Samantha-Ives. You make life a lot more cheerful for me. I'm sorry if I missed replying personally to any of your reviews this time around. My inbox has become a deep morass, I fear. Thanks as well to cecelle and Lady Whitehart for their quality-control input!

Although it may be hard to believe as you begin this chapter, we _will_ manage to leave Hogwarts behind at last before chapter's end. Happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter 49: Stay by My Side, Guide Me!**

The funeral was on Tuesday. Sarah was glad that Professor Dumbledore had arranged the details. It was difficult enough to stand at her aunt's graveside, even with the support of the headmaster's calming presence.

The delegation from the school was small. Besides Dumbledore, only Professors Snape, McGonagall and Vector had come. McGonagall had only just returned from St. Mungo's on Sunday, and she still leaned rather heavily on her walking stick; Sarah was grateful beyond words that she would make such an effort. Vector, whose presence was altogether unexpected, had apparently known Aunt Portia at school.

Sarah had refused Angelina's valiant offer to attend, although the general sympathy that arose among her dorm mates when the story was reported in the _Prophet_ was more comforting than she could have guessed.

Enduring the pity and reminiscences and effulgent grief of her aunt's friends, however, was more painful than she would ever have supposed. Fortunately, they kept mainly to themselves after their first outpouring of condolence. There were only a handful of people she didn't know—people from the Ministry, she assumed, from the distant and slightly officious stance they took. Aurors? Did they expect her aunt's murderer to show up at the funeral?

Franklin Nott had, to Sarah's agonizing frustration, been cleared of guilt in her aunt's death, although he still languished in Azkaban on a long list of charges stemming from the battle at the Ministry, not least of which was the incriminating presence of the Dark Mark on his left forearm. The wands of everyone in the Nott household had been checked—not strictly with official permission, Sarah gathered—but none of them had been used to cast the Killing Curse. When the Plattus house was searched, Ganna the house-elf had been found dead as well, shut up in a kitchen cupboard, destroying the last hope for a witness. Still no less convinced of the Notts' guilt, Sarah could only fume at Ministry stupidity. Clearly they had overlooked something; it was absurd that they expected to find it here.

It was uncanny to walk through Hogsmeade graveyard, green as it was in the June sunshine. In her mind it had been fixed in blacks and greys, cold and forbidding and very nearly deadly on that night at the cusp of October and November, of her old life and her new one. If not for that night, if not for that stupid Potions field trip, she would not now be standing here at her aunt's open grave. But no, it was not really Severus's fault, as much as she wanted someone else to blame.

Her eyes, wandering in search of she-knew-not-what, lighted on an old man leaning on a spade, out beyond the last of the official observers. It was the same old man, the caretaker, who had been threatened that night. Not his fault, either. It had been one of the Slytherin girls who had screamed, revealing their presence.

Severus was standing as close to her as propriety allowed. Not near enough for comfort. The only thing, in truth, that made her feel any better was the silent but tangible presence of her child. Aunt Portia had not known about that. Would never see her grandnephew. Maybe that was for the best, all things considered. But it hurt.

McGonagall, perhaps noticing Sarah's hand hovering oddly in the air in front of her stomach, took it and clasped it firmly while the minister pronounced the final words.

And so Portia Jane Plattus was laid to rest beside her parents—her father, who had outlived two wives, and whom Sarah remembered only vaguely, and her mother, who had already lain here for some sixty years. Staring at the headstones, Sarah's mind went to another burying place, in Lincolnshire, where both of her own parents' graves lay, only a little separated from each other, beyond the paling.

Where, she wondered, were the Snapes buried? To what fate had she committed her own mortal remains? And how long would one of them lie there without the other?

* * *

"Miss Darkglass, I presume?" 

A tall, thin wizard with a rectangular face and iron-grey hair extended his hand.

"John Mycroft."

Of Mycroft and Mycroft, 'specializing in Wizarding and Muggle law.' Or so proclaimed the gold letters on the door. The firm was tucked away on a side street of Hogsmeade. A Muggle-born wizard and his non-magical brother, according to Professor Dumbledore. He had arranged this interview for Wednesday afternoon.

"And Professor Snape?" The man's hand went out again, but his eyebrows cocked quizzically, and he shot a quick look at Sarah's Gryffindor badge.

"Professor Snape will be supervising my apprenticeship next year," Sarah said quickly. The Dark Lord had, as they had hoped, agreed to that. "Professor McGonagall is still recovering from her injuries, and Professor Snape offered to accompany me in her place."

"Ah, I see. Well, do sit down." He retreated behind his large desk. "I wish to express my sympathy to you, Miss Darkglass, on the passing of your aunt. I know this must be particularly difficult for you, since she was your guardian after your parents' deaths."

"Mr. Mycroft," Severus said abruptly. "I think this interview will be considerably easier for Miss Darkglass if you omit the meaningless platitudes and get on with business."

John Mycroft cleared his throat, looking to Sarah for direction.

"Please, sir, if you would," she said.

"Very well, then." He picked up a piece of parchment. "This may or may not come as a surprise to you, Miss Darkglass. If it does, I apologize. Your aunt altered her will last winter. She has left no provision in it for you whatsoever."

It was not really a surprise, but it still hurt.

"A few of her personal effects were bequeathed to various friends. The remainder of her estate, including the proceeds from the sale of the house, once that has been effected, will go to the Witches' Protection League."

Sarah felt an ironic smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. She tried to sound flippant. "I daresay she thought I would have need of their services sooner or later." But her voice wobbled.

Mycroft looked at her as if he did not want to know what she meant.

"Your aunt was unable, however, to interfere with the arrangements for your inheritance from your parents. As she was the only remaining trustee, it falls to our firm to complete the terms. Your inheritance will remain in trust until your twenty-fifth birthday. However, you will be granted a generous allowance each year until that time." He named a sum that Sarah thought very reasonable. "That will, I hope, be adequate?"

"Yes, sir." Then, because she remembered having read something of the sort in a novel, she asked, "What if..."

_No, perhaps it was not a good idea to ask_.

"What is your question?" Mycroft laid the parchment down.

"I was just wondering...what would happen if I were to marry?" Sarah said uneasily.

"Do you mean, would your husband become your trustee?"

"Yes."

Mycroft shook his head, as if he had been asked the question more than once. "No, the Witches' Inheritance Act of 1537 specifies that a woman inherits in her own right—her husband is not entitled to automatic control."

"I see."

Mycroft pulled a scrap of parchment toward him. "Are there any of your own possessions still remaining in your aunt's house that you would like me to retrieve?"

Sarah took a deep breath. She had hardly thought of that. The idea of going back into the house, after it had become a murder scene, was disturbing. And although she had a few summer clothes there, and a few of her old textbooks, everything she truly valued was in her trunk.

"My broom, I suppose," she said finally. "It's a Comet, the newest of the ones in the broom cupboard."

"That's all?" Mycroft had written it down, but he kept his quill poised, his expression unconvinced.

"Yes, that's all."

He put down the quill. "Very well. If you discover, Miss Darkglass, that your expenses exceed your allowance, do contact me. I do not intend to be unreasonable."

"Thank you, Mr. Mycroft," Sarah said, ducking her head.

* * *

"You should not have asked him about marriage," Severus criticized, as they walked back to Hogwarts. 

"He would hardly imagine the truth. Any young woman is apt to marry. It was not an unreasonable question."

"It was dangerous, nonetheless."

"_Someday_ we're going to have to reveal the truth," she pointed out, exasperated. "If Professor Dumbledore is right, that will be sooner rather than later."

"Why should you be in such a hurry to reveal," his voice dropped to a fierce whisper, though no one was nearby, "that you're married to me?"

"Why are you so hesitant? Are you _ashamed_ of me?"

"In case it had not occurred to you, most people are capable of simple addition and subtraction!"

"Do you really think that will matter, if we survive this? Surely you've discovered by now that people don't see what they don't want to see."

"Of course I realize that. But there are some—not just among the Dark Lord's servants—who would like to see me fall. I will not tolerate foolish and unnecessary changes in our present arrangement."

"Because you want to be headmaster someday."

He looked at her hard. "Do you disapprove of the ambition?"

"No," Sarah said, surprised that she could do so truthfully. "I just don't want to be sacrificed to it."

"You realize that I have already risked sacrificing it for your sake?" he asked with silken deadliness.

"I did not ask you to do so!"

"You're asking me now!"

"That wasn't what I intended," she protested.

"Stop questioning my judgment! Overriding my plans!"

"That wasn't what I intended either," she said, more quietly. "I just wanted you to know that I'm not ashamed of you."

"The more fool, you," he growled. But his expression softened, hinting that he was mollified. "A broom, of all things?"

"When one doesn't Apparate well, other modes of transportation _are_ desirable. You don't like flying?"

"I'm not overly fond of it as a means of getting from place to place. When it's safe for you to do so, I intend to drill you in Apparition. Your inability is bloody inconvenient."

"What arrangements are we making to get to Knockturn Alley?" she asked, hoping a slight change of subject would improve his mood. They should have talked about it before now, but they had spent very little time together—almost none of it alone—since that fateful night. "The same as at Easter?"

"I had thought," he said slowly, warily, "that you would remain here after the end of term, while I finish up necessary school business. We had...something of an appointment, did we not?"

Sarah's pace faltered for a moment. _The Gryffindor dormitory_.

It simply popped out: "She was a Gryffindor, wasn't she?"

His face instantly became a mask of bitterness and anger.

"Do you intend to continually bring up the past?" he snarled.

The injustice of his accusation stung her. "I have never _continued_ to bring up the past. I'm just as happy as you are to let it lie. But occasionally I do _trip_ over it."

"Then you would prefer to cancel our tryst?"

She wanted him, badly. But in all honesty, the idea of enacting a youthful fantasy involving another girl wounded her pride, if nothing else. "I admit, I would prefer that," she said quietly. "But if it's important to you..."

"Not in the least."

His expression belied his words, but Sarah was not prepared to argue the matter further, even though it left her with a nasty kernel of guilt at having genuinely upset him.

"Indeed," he went on, "considering the suspicion that has already been aroused, it may be best for you to return to London on the train with the other students."

"And go to Knockturn Alley on my own?" The idea was composed of equal parts of adventure and horror.

"Hardly. I will meet you at the station, after the other students have departed."

She nodded in silent agreement. She wondered how he was going to manage finishing up his end-of-year business at Hogwarts, but she was not prepared to aggravate him further by asking. Undoubtedly he would manage somehow, without her input on the subject.

They passed through the school gates, which forced the end of their conversation. But despite their silence and the Potions master's typical sour expression, a few curious glances came their way.

At least her dorm mates had been told about the Potions apprenticeship. She hoped that would silence suspicions instead of raising them. Angelina's expression when Sarah had told the others about the apprenticeship had shown how difficult the girl was finding it to keep her privileged information to herself. But she remained silent, whether because of her promise to Sarah or the conversation she must have had with Professor Dumbledore.

"Thank you," Sarah said to the Potions master when they reached the entrance hall, which necessitated their parting. Two safe and simple words, but she meant them—even Sarah Darkglass would have meant them—an expression of sincere gratitude for his support in a difficult time.

"You're quite welcome, Miss Darkglass," he answered, his expression scarcely thawing. Which, here under public eyes, was as it should be.

But how grateful she would be, she thought, as she slowly mounted the stairs, when that was no longer necessary!

* * *

It was hard to believe the term was over, that this was the last time she would be riding the Hogwarts Express as it pulled out of Hogsmeade Station. The sensation it produced was vaguely unreal, and all the seventh years seemed to be affected by it. Most of the girls were in tears; the boys, on the other hand, chatted about jobs and Quidditch, albeit in a slightly subdued fashion. 

Unlike most of the others, who were making their way from compartment to compartment, saying their goodbyes, Sarah stayed in her seat, dry-eyed. She was not sorry to see her school career end. She had moved beyond the worries and cares of her classmates months ago. Nor did she really have any close friends whose day-to-day presence she would miss. Her friendship with Angelina had not really even existed until this year, and the tension of their secret had already begun to renew the distance between them.

The other girls wanted to know where she was staying for the summer, since her aunt had, well,... It was not a comfortable topic for anyone. Sarah reassured them that a family friend was giving her houseroom for the time being, and avoided further questions by hinting that the subject was still too painful for her to discuss. Which was not altogether untrue.

When the train pulled into King's Cross Station, she remained seated in the compartment after everyone else had left. She could not risk what an impulsive last-moment hug from one of her dorm mates might reveal. The anxious look in Angelina's eyes as she bid Sarah a last farewell made her feel unexpectedly lonely as she watched the students being received into the arms of their parents out on the platform.

She had no one anymore. No one who would take her in for the sake of their blood bond alone. Only Severus. And if he should ever choose to abandon her, or if anything happened to him...

A voice startled her out of her reverie.

"Does something ail you?" It was the witch who pushed the snack trolley, her wand (_so, she isn't a Squib, _Sarah thought) clutched in her hand.

"No," Sarah said. Shaking off her maudlin thoughts, she stood up.

"I have to clean the compartments," the witch said, and began doing so, with a series of murmured words and wand-waving, without even waiting for the girl to leave.

A quick Feather-light Spell allowed Sarah to retrieve her trunk and pull it down the passageway and off the train. Severus was to meet her in the main Muggle part of the station an hour after arrival. At least twenty or thirty minutes of that time had already passed; the platform was nearly deserted. Slowly (since it was difficult for her to do otherwise) she made her way through the barrier and out into the hustle and bustle of the station. .

When she finally reached the benches that were their agreed-upon meeting place, she sat gratefully, panting quietly. A few odd glances came her way from Muggle passersby—she had kept on her school robes, not eager to show the suggestive outfit underneath—but she was too weary and heartsick to care. Severian was restless, after all the moving about, and she closed her eyes and concentrated on him, absorbed for long minutes in trying to discern which jab was an elbow and which was a foot.

"Sarah?" called an astonished but familiar voice, jolting her out of the half-sleep into which she had unintentionally fallen. Her eyes popped up, searching the crowd for the person who had spoken.

It was Michael.

Her obvious recognition brought him over to her at a jog.

"What are you doing here?" Sarah gasped.

"Coming up to stay with my cousin Geoff for the weekend. Got home yesterday, but I have an interview early Monday." He grinned. "You're the last person I expected to run into."

"Likewise." Sarah was flabbergasted.

"You waiting for someone to pick you up?" His smile faded. "I...uh...I heard about your aunt. My mum told me last night."

_What_, Sarah wondered desperately, _would the Muggle neighbors have heard?_

"I'm awfully sorry," he went on. "You're not going to stay in the house alone, are you?"

"No, the house is to be sold," Sarah replied. "I'm staying with...um...friends. Here in London."

Michael nodded. "You going to work here in the city now?"

"I...uh...I hope I won't have to work. Over the summer anyway."

"Oh, um, I suppose you're still quite upset," he said, with embarrassed sympathy. "Sorry. I just...well, I got the impression that you'd quarreled with your aunt over Christmas. You just up and left, you know? And your aunt refused to say anything about where you'd gone or why. She wouldn't send on a message. She wouldn't even give me an address to write to you."

He must have been worried, Sarah thought, if he had asked to write to her. From their first year at school, she had put him off the idea by saying that the post up at Hogwarts was notoriously unreliable.

"Do you know," he said, "your school isn't in any directories?"

Sarah blanched. "It _is_ awfully old and exclusive."

"Must be." He grinned again, taking in her school robes. "But I can have your London address, right? I'd hate to lose touch with you, now that you're leaving the village for good."

What she would have said in reply to that awkward request, she never found out. At that moment, someone else—someone more familiar yet—called her name.

"Sarah?" Severus strode up. He studied the red-haired youth speaking to his wife as he would have a substandard dried flobberworm. "What is the meaning of this?"

Feeling too much at a disadvantage, Sarah pushed herself to her feet.

"This is, um, Michael Everett. An old friend of mine."

The expression on his face changed subtly as he realized just which friend this must be.

"Michael," she said hurriedly, hoping that an introduction might take some of the edge off the situation. "This is Professor Severus Snape, a teacher from my school."

"Pleased to meet you," Michael said automatically. He seemed about to extend his hand, but apparently thought better of it. "I suppose you're helping Sarah get to her friends'?"

"Yes," Severus answered sharply. Then, to both of them, "As touching as I'm sure this little reunion is, I have no more time to waste."

"I...um...I really could use a trolley for my trunk," Sarah said, anxious to have a moment more to speak to Michael. She had run off without a word at Christmas, and it would be rotten of her to do so again.

Severus's expression soured as he understood the hint, and she was afraid he would refuse to take it. But he said, "I shall get you one." He stalked off, the billowing of his robes drawing further attention to his unconventional mode of dress.

"Whew, he's not very nice!" Michael whispered. "I expect you'll be glad to be quit of him."

Sarah opened her mouth...and then shut it, not sure what she wanted to say. Her glance went after Severus almost involuntarily.

"Sarah?" Michael said. Her face must have given something away, because he sounded troubled.

She blinked, trying to paste on a casual expression. "No, I suppose he's not very nice."

It took her an instant to realize her mistake in her choice of words—the same ones she had used to describe her boyfriend to Michael at Christmas—although she had only meant them to be an echo of his last comment. His eyebrows furrowed quizzically, and her own dismay, now unavoidably evident, made matters worse, triggering an exchange of unspoken reactions that erased all doubt. The youth's face went pale under his red hair.

"You... Not _him?_" He sounded genuinely shocked. "A _teacher?_"

"Look," Sarah said. "I'll write to you. I can't give you my address just now."

"Are you staying with _him?_" Michael hissed low, in utter disbelief.

Severus was coming back now, pushing the trolley fast enough that it wobbled furiously.

"I'm very happy, Michael. I really am." Quickly and quietly, she pleaded, "Please don't think badly of me."

"Of course not." Michael gaped. "I'm just..."

The trolley thumped into the bench. Glaring, Severus loaded Sarah's trunk onto it.

"I do have to go now," Sarah said. "Good luck to you, Michael, in your interview."

"I hope we'll run into each other again." The comment earned him a nastyglance from Sarah's professor. "Take care of yourself, Sarah."

"Good-bye!" she called.

* * *

"No one would have ever believed your child was his. Not with such hair," Severus muttered under his breath, as he pushed the cart toward a way out. 

Sarah thought about defending her erstwhile preparations, but it was too much effort. Nor did it matter anymore. Things had changed since she had devised those plans. Everything had changed.

When she did not respond, Severus added snidely, "Was that arranged?"

"What?"

"Your little tryst."

She stopped in her tracks.

"It was a chance meeting!" She was appalled at what he seemed to be suggesting. "I've _never_ written to Michael from school. How could I? He's a _Muggle_."

Severus had halted, but now—as if to make up for that minor yielding—he stiffened coldly to his full height. "You will not contact him again."

It took Sarah a moment to recover her wits. _How dare he!_ "You will not tell me who I can and can't associate with!"

"You cannot afford to _associate_," he twisted the word nastily, "with Muggles at present."

"I'm hardly going to introduce him to...to _certain people_."

Severus resumed pushing the cart, his expression disdainful.

"Michael is one of my oldest and dearest friends," Sarah went on, struggling to keep up with him. Then, when he gave no hint of a reaction, she added, "He even gave me my first kiss."

That did it. His mouth bent into a snarl and he hissed, "_Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Sarah?_"

"Well, you're trying so hard to be provoked, it seemed a shame to disappoint you. What cause have you to be so jealous?"

He rounded on her. "What _cause_ have I? When I find you speaking companionably with a boy of your own age, a boy in whom you have admitted a past interest? A boy far more suited to..."

"I would never...I'm _married_ to you!" Sarah protested, glancing around nervously as she tried to keep her voice down. Their argument had garnered a few curious looks, but perhaps it wasn't unusual for Muggles to argue in public places: at least no one was paying particular attention.

"Even being married does not prevent some people from—"

"Are you trying to put me in the same class as _Bellatrix?_"

His red face blanched, and some of the anger drained out of his eyes. "Of course not. But nevertheless—"

"Let me tell you something," Sarah said earnestly. "Before I ever had a magical reason not to, I thought about that—about sleeping with someone else...even with _him_." She pointed vaguely in the direction in which Michael had departed. "And I _couldn't_. I couldn't bear the thought of being with anyone but you."

His expression of disbelief softened slightly; as if to cover that fact, he pushed the trolley forward sharply again. "I fail to comprehend why. Unless your mother's interventions were even more powerful than we've chosen to suppose."

The possibility made her heart lodge in her throat, but she stubbornly swallowed it away. "Can you simply not accept that I was yours—of my own free will—long before you ever thought to _force_ me to be?"

Almost without realizing it, they had reached the way out. Severus brought the trolley to an abrupt stop and heaved her still-Lightened trunk onto the floor. He said nothing in reply, but his unwillingness to look at her said more about his regret over his behavior than he would ever have verbally admitted.

"I didn't want to quarrel with you today," Sarah murmured.

"Then we shall not do so any further," he said bluntly. "Give me your school robes."

She felt more than a little chagrin about shedding her outer clothes in public, revealing her whore costume—the waistline having been considerable altered by McGonagall—with the illusion belt hidden underneath. But the Muggles took little notice: a glare from Severus was enough to suggest to any passing bloke that his appreciative eyes had better wander elsewhere. Severus popped open her trunk just long enough to tuck her robes inside, then began dragging it along behind him towards the pavement outside. It suddenly occurred to her to wonder where he meant to go.

"How are we getting to Diagon Alley? I thought we were taking the Muggle Underground?" She glanced anxiously back into the station. The thought of walking across the city—even with him managing the trunk—made her feet and back hurt more than they already did.

Severus grimaced. "Professor Dumbledore thought another solution might be easier for you. He made...arrangements."

As they stepped out into the early evening light, a young woman unexpectedly approached them. Sarah would have sworn at first glance she was a Muggle—her pink hair and her emblazoned purple t-shirt were certainly less out-of-place here at the station than their robes.

"Wotcher, Snape," she said.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, that is who you think. It was never my intention to bring her into this story, but she just appeared on the scene. I'm awfully glad she did. :) 

And yes, that was a roundabout nod to Sherlock Holmes. I can't remember (stupid fibro brain!) if I've previously recommended _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_ by Laurie R. King. It's a book that fans of this story would probably enjoy quite a bit—hard-headed, traumatized young woman; sarcastic, persnickety older man. ;)

Sorry to those who have been waiting for the dorm lemon. But under the circumstances, it just wasn't going to fly.


	51. Ch 50: I'm Here, Nothing Can Harm You

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Look, if you sue me, you've got to sue all these other fan fiction writers, too. And as far as I know, the total net worth of all Harry Potter fan fiction writers put together is still a lot less than J. K. Rowling's. So, is it really worth it, just to spoil our fun?

**A/N:** The good news is, due to a very long chapter I had to split, I've now got _three_ chapters done after this one (as of today—April 3). Which means that my next update should be much sooner than usual. The bad news is that I move in less than two weeks, which is likely to put a crimp in my writing and/or posting for a while. _But_ I will try to get everything I have written through today posted before we move, regardless of whether or not I have anything else waiting in reserve by then. So that's more good news, I guess. :)

Many, many thanks to my faithful reviewers (and the occasional ones, too!), Bellegeste, Ray Dragon, Samantha-Ives, cecelle, becca, Lady Whitehart, lucidity, shrinkin-violet, Aiden2 and AlanaRose12. And thanks, as always, to Lady Whitehart and cecelle for reading this before the rest of you are forced to. ;)

I didn't expect Tonks to show up in this story, but there she was. And boy was I glad! Because I confess that I was _immensely_ frustrated by the out-of-nowhere appearance of the relationship of Remus and Tonks in HBP. So this chapter let me get a little of that out of my system. I feel much better now. I hope you do, too.

* * *

**Chapter 50: I'm Here, Nothing Can Harm You**

"I'll take the trunk," the young woman offered.

"You won't be lifting anything, Tonks!" A man came up behind her. Sarah recognized him, with a jolt, as Remus Lupin. It had only been two years since he had taught at Hogwarts, but the time had not been kind to either his person or his robes. "You haven't been out of hospital that long. You shouldn't even _be_ here."

"Apart from the fact that, one, I was able to borrow a car, and two, I know how to drive?"

"You mean _Nymphadora_ is the one driving?" Severus asked. "Perhaps the Underground will be a safer option."

"Don't trust me, Snape?" The witch finally grinned, which transformed her heart-shaped face into impishness.

"Not with Sarah's safety. I was under the impression Lupin would be driving."

"Thank you for your confidence in my abilities, Severus," Lupin said. His mild and easy manner was a disarming counterpoint to Sarah's new perspective on the man. _Werewolf_, she reminded herself, although such a savage image suited him no better than the role of former tormentor. "But in this instance, I'm afraid we will all be infinitely safer with Tonks at the wheel."

"I didn't run into a single thing on the way here." The witch shot a grateful smile at Lupin, although she seemed to linger over it a moment longer than strictly necessary. The man's returning smile faded slightly into a look of vague discomfort.

"I'll take the trunk," Lupin said.

"I'll bring the car over, so you don't have to walk," added Tonks, following in the man's wake.

"What was that all about?" Sarah asked.

"Our...transportation," Severus ground out.

"Then that witch is in the Order as well?" Sarah whispered.

"If I were not concerned for your health, we would not be taking this risk at all," he answered, ignoring (quite reasonably, she realized) her question.

* * *

A few minutes later, they were seated inside the back compartment of the ugly green Muggle vehicle, which was stiflingly warm inside, despite the windows being open. The experience of riding in a car, Sarah found, was something like a cross between the train and the Knight Bus, although Miss Tonks' driving was considerably less wild than the latter. She only went up onto the pavement twice. 

"The car's my dad's," she informed them casually, as she pulled out onto the roadway. "He's off on holiday at the moment. So, you're Sarah." Tonks craned her head around to look at her female passenger, which resulted in both Lupin and Severus shouting at her to watch the road. "You don't look as young as I imagined." She sounded curiously disappointed. "I guess you came to school when I was still there, although I don't remember you. You don't remember me, I suppose?"

"No, I don't," Sarah confessed honestly. The young woman must have waited until leaving Hogwarts to dye her hair such an unforgettable color. She couldn't imagine McGonagall permitting it at school.

"Oh, well." Tonks shrugged. "And I suppose it's just as well for you that you look older. Under the circumstances."

"You _told_ her?" Severus said sharply to Lupin. "You had no business—"

"Well, actually," Lupin said, "Professor Dumbledore thought it best that someone else in the Order know the truth. And since she had access to a car..."

"I'm hardly going to advertise it, Snape," Tonks said. "If it works for you, it works for me. More power to you, I say."

Severus frowned, glaring from one to the other, stiff with suspicion.

Lupin, as if trying to deny his own discomfited expression, shrugged sheepishly.

"I see that your injuries have addled your wits even more than usual, Nymphadora." The cheap spitefulness of the comment made Sarah wince, but she wasn't sure how to intervene.

"Fine," Tonks said snappishly. "I don't have to defend you, you know."

Before Severus could launch another volley, Sarah asked, "Were you there at the Ministry that night?" Injuries and a recent confinement to hospital, along with Order membership, strongly suggested the probability.

"Yeah. But I don't want to talk about it," Tonks said. And much to Sarah's surprise, the woman shut up for several streets. When she spoke again, it was all business. "We're going to have to drop you off down the way a bit. Don't want to attract too much attention, see?"

"Obviously not," Severus said dryly. "Sarah, do you have your veil?"

"Yes." She produced it from a pocket as Tonks pulled up to the curb.

"Leaky Cauldron's just around the corner." Tonks pointed back toward the street they had just crossed. Sarah had thought it looked familiar, but everything seemed strange from her current vantage point.

"You will remain here long enough for me to enter Diagon Alley," Severus addressed Sarah. "Meet me there, as before." He got out of the car in a flurry of black robes, without a single word of thanks to their escorts. When Lupin hopped out to open the boot, Severus snapped at him to get back in the car. Shortly, Severus disappeared around the corner, her trunk jerking along behind him.

Sarah sat in the growing, uncomfortable silence that followed his departure. Finally she blurted out, "Thank you for your help."

"No worries," Tonks said, then added candidly, "I wanted to get a look at you."

Not sure how to answer such a blunt comment, Sarah lapsed back into silence.

"Sarah," Lupin said, after clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Professor Dumbledore wants to protect you, but I hope you understand that we're the only two in the Order who know all about you."

"Of course." Sarah nodded.

"Also," he went on, hesitantly. "You need to know that the Order can't protect you in Knockturn Alley. Even most Aurors don't dare go very far back in there."

"_I_ would," Tonks put in.

Lupin shot her an unhappy look. "The point is, if you need outside help, you'll have to come out into Diagon Alley."

"I understand," Sarah said. She could not help thinking that Severus and his family would be more protection than this mild man and his young female sidekick. "I expect he's been gone long enough." It took a few moments of clumsy fumbling, but she managed to get the car's door open. "Thank you again." She stumbled out onto the pavement.

Lupin said, "You're quite welcome."

"See you," Tonks called.

As if that were likely. So far as Sarah could guess, she would never see either of them again.

Pacing along at the most brisk waddle she could manage without looking ridiculous, she rounded the corner...and stopped short.

Severus had not gone into the pub, which was a bit further down the now familiar-looking street than Tonks had suggested. He was still out on the pavement, talking with another man who was clearly also a wizard, although they were standing at the wrong angle for her see the man's face. Their respective stances suggested that Severus was not a willing party to the conversation.

Sarah backed away rapidly, retreating around the corner. She felt instinctively that whatever was going on, Severus would not want her to be in the middle of it. But her urge to protect him was strong enough to send her inching back toward the car, wrung by an inner debate about whether he would thank her for bringing those two to his rescue.

"...younger than I am!" she heard Tonks say, as she came within hearing range. Sarah halted. She was still behind the car, and they had not seen her returning—they were locked in intense debate with one another. It was fortunate for them that she was not, in fact, the Dark Lord's loyal servant she was pretending to be.

"He made a _student_ pregnant!" Lupin said, almost too low to be heard. "Am I supposed to find that commendable?"

Sarah slid behind the nearby lamppost, both curious and angry to find herself the subject of their discussion.

"She doesn't seem to mind his age—that's my point!"

"You can't compare things on a single point. My condition—"

"Oh yes, I suppose that _controlled_ lycanthropy is ever so much worse for your partner than being an _active_ Death Eater."

"He's chosen to place her in danger. I won't do that to you, Tonks."

"In case you haven't noticed, Remus, I'm an _Auror_. I place _myself_ in danger all the time."

"It isn't the same. And I can't even get a job! At least he has that."

"_I_ have a job."

"If you think I would ever dream of letting my wife support me..."

Tonks snorted. "You _are_ old, Remus! No, I didn't mean that," she added hastily. "Look—"

"There is no point in discussing this. I'm sorry, Tonks. I shouldn't have encouraged...I shouldn't have let you know..."

"No, you should have just let me go on being miserably in love with you. Because that's what I'm going to do, you know? That's what I'm going to do anyway." Her voice broke, and abruptly the car started, the sound covering whatever his reply was. The car jerked out onto the roadway, very nearly being hit by another. The Muggle driver's horn blared. Another chorus of beeping arose when Tonks' car barely paused at the next intersection before rushing through.

They were gone.

* * *

Trembling, Sarah made her way back to the corner. She did not know what to think of the conversation she had overheard. She almost wished that she had met the common fate of eavesdroppers: merely to hear herself spoken ill of. The desperate unhappiness in the young witch's voice made Sarah's own heart twist painfully in response. And now there was no one to help her if Severus really had got into trouble. 

Neither Severus nor the man were in front of the pub now. Her heart thudding, Sarah advanced down the pavement. She drew her veil around her head like a shawl, clutching the sides up to her nose with her left hand, unwilling to compromise her vision entirely. She ducked inside the Leaky Cauldron, her right hand clenched around the wand in her pocket.

There were no signs of a ruckus having recently taken place. No one took much notice of her as she came in, despite her costume, except the barman. And he must have decided at a glance that she was not likely a paying customer, because he went back to his business. A few tongues clicked, from the direction of a group of middle-aged witches.

Severus was not here. Not that she expected him to be. Nor did she see anyone who resembled—so far as she could tell from a single, distant glimpse—the man who had accosted him outside. She didn't dare stop to look too closely, though. She hurried through to the back courtyard and drew her wand to tap the bricks that opened the way in.

She had scarcely taken a dozen paces into Diagon Alley when footsteps fell in behind her. She turned, startled, ready to hex the culprit into immobility. But it was Severus, her trunk floating along serenely behind him.

"How much for the evening?" he asked.

It took Sarah a moment to get her breath back. "How much are you willing to pay, gov'ner?"

"Suppose we negotiate that elsewhere?"

She took his proffered arm and whispered, "You scared me half to death."

"I didn't want to leave you unguarded for any longer than necessary."

"Does this have to do with the man you met out front?"

She felt his muscles tighten. "You saw that, then? I'm glad you had the sense to stay back."

"I have learned a _few _things. But I didn't see how it ended."

"I will explain when we reach the flat. Meanwhile, keep your wand ready. But for heaven's sake, if I tell you to run, do so without argument."

* * *

It was a nerve-wracking walk. As she had remembered, Knockturn Alley was far more frightening at dusk than in the daylight hours. It was worse still waiting for the attack of some unknown enemy. _Not Bella?_ Unless that man had been one of the Lestranges. But they reached the building without incident. Waiting for Severus to lift the wards, Sarah grimaced at the sounds of the oldest trade being plied in others of the flats. 

It was only when they were safely inside the fully-lit room, the wards replaced to his satisfaction, that Severus took her in his arms, cradling her wordlessly against his chest. He encountered her invisibly burgeoning stomach, and let one hand drop to follow its curve.

"What was that about? Who _was_ that?" she asked. "I thought we would be safe now."

He stiffened at her accusatory tone. "Nothing perhaps. Just a warning."

"What kind of warning?" She took a step back and stared up at him.

His face had that old shuttered look; she wanted to shake him. But he lifted his hand to cup her face. "An old...mutual acquaintance."

Lucius Malfoy and Franklin Nott were in Azkaban. And he would not refer to the Dark Lord that way. "Bellatrix?"

Severus smirked grimly at her puzzled expression. "She won't dare trouble us for now. I was referring to someone else. Someone without whom, no doubt," he traced her lips with his thumb, "neither of us would be here at this moment."

Realization dawned, and with it, a different kind of fear. "_Connor?_ You said he wasn't the type to go looking for revenge."

"That appears to have changed somewhat," Severus said sardonically.

"But...you didn't duel," Sarah pointed out.

"On a Muggle street? Within earshot of dozens of wizards? He's in no hurry to find himself back in Azkaban. But I think the flat will not be safe for you here alone. I will increase the wards tonight, but when I return to Hogwarts tomorrow, you will require new accommodations."

Sarah looked around her at the dingy little flat. It bore evidences of her presence at Easter—a curtain mended here, the coverlet straightened there. Her trunk sat in the middle of the floor. She had planned to call this place, however small and unlovely, her home. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"I want to stay here."

"No, Sarah," his tone was sharp, but his expression softened when he saw she was crying. "Damn that man!" He took her into his arms again. "I won't risk losing you."

Her lips found his. The desperation of this week of separated nights, when Sarah had not dared to go to him for fear that her absence would be too much for Angelina to endure, was sharpened all the further by the fear of being separated forever. That penultimate desire drove them, scarcely aware of anything but each other, into the other room.

A sharp knock sounded on the outer door.

Severus swore volubly.

"Who's there?" he snapped, stalking toward the door with wand drawn.

"Miriam. I've brought you a bite of supper."

Sarah had not had occasion to use her robe-straightening charm in months, but she employed it now. Severus removed the wards and jerked open the door, his face still suffused with purple.

Sarah felt sure that Miriam's sharp eyes had perceived the situation in an instant, but the woman stepped inside anyway, carrying a small cooking pot wrapped in a cloth. Severus raised the wards behind her.

"I've had my cat Gypsy watching for you. I thought you might prefer not to go out tonight." Her lips were very thin, her face somber, as she set the pot on the table.

"What have you heard, Miriam?" Severus frowned.

"Isaac Connor's come back. He spoke to Caius this afternoon. Gave him a threat to pass along to you." She turned, her glance flicking momentarily toward Sarah. "He said—"

"I had his threat from his own lips," Severus interrupted. "I met him outside the Leaky Cauldron less than an hour ago."

Miriam paused, as if in doubt, then said, "If you need—"

"I do _not!_" Severus exploded. "If you think I would take so much as a Knut from Caius—!"

"He wouldn't give you the dust from his purse, as you well know," Miriam retorted. "But I have money of my own—"

"It isn't a question of money!" Sarah caught the flash of his eyes, looking uneasily at her for an instant. _What was the threat? Blackmail? _"You're a fool if you think that would satisfy him now."

Miriam drew herself up with a world-weary air. "As you will. But he's taken a room at the Mermaid. He can't mean to stay here long." It sounded to Sarah far more like a warning than the words themselves suggested.

"Well, I shall have to inconvenience him," Severus said with a grim smirk.

"What is it you intend to do?" Miriam frowned.

Severus hesitated then, and his face lost its sneering look. "I have end-of-year work to complete at Hogwarts. I ought to leave to tomorrow. Will you take Sarah in until I return?"

"Wait a minute!" Sarah broke in at last. Witnessing this terse exchange made it clearer every moment that Severus had been trying—was still trying—to keep as much about the danger from her as possible. "Have I no say in any of this?"

"No," Severus said bluntly.

"But—!"

"The efforts required to return you secretly to Hogwarts would be ridiculous." He slashed the air with his hand. "Where else would you propose to go?"

Sarah, to her dismay, was left speechless: the list of possibilities was perilously short.

"Well?" Severus turned back to his aunt.

Miriam's expression was troublingly guarded. "She might be happier with Cornelia and Jacob."

"Happier!" Severus snapped. "Will she be _safer?_"

"He won't think to look there. And Caius may not be willing to have her in the house. Not if he thinks she'll bring trouble down on us."

"Even for my son's sake?" he sneered. "The last Snape?"

"You know perfectly well what it would cost to ask him to set _that_ much store by the boy."

"Damn it, I _do_ know."

"_I_ don't!" Sarah interrupted again, infuriated at the way they were discussing Severian's safety—as if she weren't even in the room!

Miriam turned grimly to face her. "If Caius were to risk his life for the boy, he would want to raise him as his own son."

"No!" Sarah knew that absolute arrangements had yet not been made about Severian's guardians, but she had never supposed that Severus would allow Caius to take that much control. She looked desperately to him.

"Certainly not," he said. "What about Mantua? Would she be safer out in Diagon Alley?"

"Perhaps. I'll talk to them tomorrow. Promise me you'll not go out tonight."

"I had no intention of doing so," he said, his lip curling.

"No, I suppose not." Miriam's nose wrinkled slightly. "Well, I shall leave you to your evening." She drew her wand.

"You won't be attacked, leaving here?" Sarah felt a stronger surge of her growing panic.

"I do hope not," Miriam said. "Be careful, the both of you."

Severus lifted the wards.

"Thank you for the supper!" Sarah called, belatedly, as Miriam slipped out into the passageway. She wasn't sure the woman heard her; Severus had slammed down the wards the moment she left. He locked the door and charmed the lock.

"Did he threaten _me?_" she asked, both angry and frightened. "Or the _baby?_"

"He doesn't know about the child." Severus frowned, turning his wand in his fingers. "Nor were his threats directed in particular at you. If he finds he can use you to hurt me, no doubt he will. But he would far rather damage me directly."

"He wants money?"

"He wants me dead. Or in Azkaban. The money is merely the icing on the cake." He sneered, but that did not decrease Sarah's alarm one jot.

"What does he intend to do?"

"I do not intend to let him do anything." His face became as closed as it had ever been. "He is hardly the only enemy I have ever had, Sarah. Beyond taking extra precautions for your safety, you will do _nothing_ in regard to Connor—promise me that!"

"You can hardly expect me to promise to stand by and allow you to be murdered!"

"I fully expect, when I die, for it to be by murder," he answered fiercely, "but it won't be at Connor's hand."

Sarah could find no answer to that. She went into his arms, her eyes welling with angry tears. And he held her with the same fierceness with which he had spoken.

"Why now?" she whispered. "He didn't trouble us at Easter."

"I don't think he was here at Easter. He hasn't lived in Knockturn for years, apparently. Things grew...too hot for him here after the Dark Lord disappeared. Most recently, I've discovered, he's been living in Manchester. He would have gone there after he was released from Azkaban."

"That doesn't answer my question. Why _now?_"

Severus attempted a snort, but for once it came out sounding more like he had a cold in the head. "I would hardly have been here before the end of term."

Sarah looked up at him. He was avoiding the truth—that was as plain as the nose on his face. But she understood, too, that it was impossible for her to either bully or beg the facts from him. "If you think it's better I don't know," she said carefully, "then I won't question you. But I would feel safer if I knew what was going on."

He frowned down at her slightly. "Suffice to say that he has found a reason to seek my end."

"It has to do with me, somehow, doesn't it?" As his expression tightened, she became sure of it. "Because you protected me at Halloween?"

"No. He does not know who you are, and I intend for it to remain that way. You must do exactly as I tell you, Sarah." His dark eyes locked on hers until she blinked and nodded, feeling a sense of despair as she did so.

"I don't want to lose you."

His only answer was a fierce kiss.

Then, suddenly, they were picking up where they had left off. Sarah half-expected another interruption. But there was no Angelina to avoid, no snooping Draco, no Dumbledore or McGonagall. In this room, in this place, she could be lover and protégée and wife, without censure and without fear—except of their enemies, who could not reach them tonight, not here behind the power of her lover's wards, not here in his arms.

It was a good deal later when they discovered that Miriam had, thoughtfully, placed a Warming Charm on the dinner pot.

* * *

**A/N:** So, the summer begins. Soon we'll begin to see even more how Sarah's presence will warp the events of HBP. Stay tuned:) 


	52. Ch 51: Now, How You've Repaid Me

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** I'm not doing this for the money. Because if I were, I wouldn't be doing it. That make sense? Also, there are lines of dialogue in this chapter that were taken from _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_. Those are definitely not mine.

**A/N:** The next three chapters (this one and the two after) form a sort of sequence, so I'm going to try to get them all uploaded before I move (Saturday!). Mind you, they may not be posted that soon, but I'm trying.

As always, I wouldn't have nearly as much fun doing this without my wonderful reviewers (of whom, lucidity, Ray Dragon, Lady Whitehart, Darla, Samantha-Ives, AlanaRose12 and cecelle managed to review in the little time between the posting of the last chapter and this one). And I couldn't manageit at all without Lady Whitehart and cecelle. Thanks, to you all!

In this chapter, we begin to see how Sarah's presence in Snape's life will start to change some of the events of HBP. Naturally, Snape's background is different, so there's no house in Spinner's End. But I think the difference in location is sufficiently unsubstantial to affect the basic course of history. Okay, maybe I'm deluded. But there it is. (I guess I do subscribe to Terry Pratchett's theory about the basic course of history—read _Mort_ if you don't know what I mean. My favorite Discworld book.)

There area couple of literary references, for those who like to catch such things. :)

* * *

**Chapter 51: Now, How You've Repaid Me**

"We could take him in," Cornelia Grimm said. But there was a hesitancy in her earnestness, and she was looking, not at Sarah, but at her husband, Jacob.

In the few days Sarah had spent in the rooms above Grimm's Grocery, she had become fond of Miriam's oldest daughter. Cornelia was an innately cheerful soul. Unlike her sister Flora, who had inherited their father's dour expression, if not entirely his gruff personality, Cornelia smiled readily and often. Even with the two of them side by side, one would be hard-pressed to tell that Flora was the younger. And Cornelia's enthusiasm with her little niece, Melanie, who was no more than two, was almost infectious. Even the somber Flora smiled occasionally as she watched them play.

So Sarah's heart rose at Cornelia's suggestion. True, Jacob was scarcely less grim—apt to his name—than Severus. But among the three families of his nearest relatives, the Grimms had been, almost from the first hour she had spent with them, her own most hopeful choice for Severian's guardians.

"But could you stand to give him up again?" Jacob glanced up from the _Evening Prophet_ and adjusted his spectacles.

Cornelia's expression faltered. "We might have a child of our own by that time."

Sarah knew, from the potions she had seen in the household, that Cornelia was trying to conceive.

"An' if we don't?" His bushy eyebrows went up. "Besides, your sister's already feeding one. It'd be as easy for her to take on another."

"There are potions..." Cornelia protested.

Jacob folded his paper roughly and said, with a trace of sarcasm, "Right, there's always potions." He got up from his chair and was stalking toward the door when there came an unexpected knock.

Jacob's eyes went instantly to Sarah. Any sharp sound outside had been causing that reaction in her hosts, even in Jacob's parents, who looked at her with vague distaste every time she encountered them.

"Who is it?" Jacob demanded.

"Sam," answered a small voice on the other side. He was the Grimms' shop boy. "I gots a note fer yer missus' cousin."

Miriam had made Sarah over carefully before leading her out of the flat the other morning, with a change of clothing and hairstyle. She was no longer Severus Snape's seedy mistress. Now she was the daughter of a cousin of Miriam's in Bristol, come down to London looking for work. 'Sarah Snaith' was a far more believable persona, both in education and manners, and the family connection meant that no one would think twice about her suddenly taking up with Miriam's nephew.

Jacob let the boy in, and he handed over a folded scrap of parchment before ducking out again.

"He's back!" Sarah said, unable to contain her joy as she perused the note. Her spirits fell a little as she took in the details of the ruse he had planned—an early tea at Miriam's tomorrow for their "first meeting." But as she finished reading, she blushed. He would remove the restrictions on his Floo connection at ten o'clock tonight.

Jacob took the note and studied it. "This'll please Mum and Dad. Though he don't say when you'll be moving back altogether."

"Jacob!" Cornelia chided, and took the note herself. "It'd look odd if she's seen moving in with him the first day they met. That'd bring her to Connor's attention right quick."

Jacob shrugged. "All the same. An' think on what other attention we'd be getting if we take in his son."

"This is _my_ family we're talking about," Cornelia said testily, her lips forming an unaccustomed frown. "You'd do the same for yours."

Jacob sighed. "Right," he said, but this time he did not sound derisive...just weary.

* * *

"How did you get away so quickly?" Sarah asked, when Severus paused long enough in kissing her to lead her back into the bedroom. She had expected him to be away for a week at least. 

"I had no reason to dawdle." He smirked.

Sarah doubted that he ever dawdled, except for brief moments with her.

"The headmaster urged everyone to finish up their school responsibilities quickly this year."

Whether or not there was anything of significance in that fact, neither of them gave the matter any thought in the dizzy enjoyment of their increasingly improvised lovemaking.

* * *

With Severus back, even the danger from Connor seemed to recede a little. The man had—to Sarah's considerable distress when she learned of it—attempted to break into the empty flat. But having expected exactly that, Severus had left some rather nasty spell traps in place inside the cunningly weakened wards. Now, rumor had it, after nursing his injuries for a day or two in his filthy room at The Mermaid's Tail, and with no indication of when his enemy was expected to return, Connor had retreated back to Manchester. Leaving Severus to carry on a distressingly sedate courtship with his aunt's cousin by day and a still-secret affair with his wife by night. 

But before the week was out, their peace was shattered again—not by Connor, but by a ghost phoenix lighting up their darkened bedroom. With a flick of his wand, Severus gained access to the message it carried.

"What is it?" Sarah cried, as Severus leaped out of bed, throwing on his robes in desperate haste.

"The headmaster is injured. Go back to the Grimms." And with no more instruction than that, he left the flat, the pop of his Disapparition just outside the door causing it to rattle on its hinges.

It was not until two days later that Sarah learned what that summons had portended.

* * *

It was a long two days. The reports of Death Eater activity in the _Daily Prophet_ became increasingly alarming. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones, had been killed in her own home, the Dark Mark left floating ominously above the house, a mocking warning that the Dark Lord's servants were above any law the Ministry could make. And there were other murders, and disappearances too. Ministry Obliviators were frantically trying to cover up all the magical activity, to prevent the Muggles' finding out, and Ministry owls were showering educational leaflets down on the wizarding populace (although not, Jacob Grimm remarked in disgust, in Knockturn Alley), but there was no doubt that the situation was out of control. 

The Ministry had managed to secure Azkaban after the defection of the dementors, but now it appeared that those horrible creatures were roaming through Britain—breeding, said the _Prophet_'s experts on the subject. Cornelius Fudge was daily vilified by the same reporters who had danced to the Ministry's tune all last year. It was almost certain that he would be hounded out of office.

It was—according to the elder Mr. Grimm—as if the Dark Lord had never left.

The reaction in Knockturn Alley was difficult to gauge. Certainly, the panic that was being reported in the _Prophet_ was not happening here. Instead there was a tenseness, even a hint of excitement. And while there was no open joy at all these troubles, it was not uncommon to hear sentiments such as "served 'em right, din' it" expressed without shame in conversations on the street. More than anything, it seemed as if none of it really mattered to the inhabitants of the Alley. Which, Sarah could not help concluding, was probably very close to the truth.

Until Severus returned, Sarah had been assuming that Dumbledore's injury had resulted from an attack like those reported in the papers. The truth was, in some ways, more disturbing.

"If he had told me what he was trying to do, I would have remained at Hogwarts to assist him," Severus snapped, pacing the little kitchen. "It's extremely hazardous to destroy a powerful Dark object."

What the object was, however, he would not say.

"It's enough for you to know that the headmaster was injured. Something the Dark Lord will no doubt find encouraging."

"Is Professor Dumbledore going to be all right?"

"To put it bluntly...probably not." He passed a hand across his brow. "I was able to prevent the damage from spreading, but he has been weakened by it. Any further encounters with Dark magic may set the curse working again."

"He can't...just avoid...?" It was terrible to think of Dumbledore, a wizard powerful enough that even the Dark Lord feared him, being disabled like that.

"I have warned him," Severus said. "But doubtless he will do as he sees fit."

"But this is terrible!" Sarah said, curling fearfully around her unborn child. "How can we hope to win without Professor Dumbledore fighting for us?"

"I have warned you as well, Sarah!" The harsh expression he had worn while he spoke of Dumbledore's injury was now turned upon her. "You must be prepared for the possibility that we will _not_ win. It is only by very good fortune that the Dark Lord did not call you before him when he agreed to permit you to continue as my protégée. You cannot hope that you will never encounter him again. If you were summoned at this moment, you could not possibly—"

"I know!" she snapped back, resentful of the betraying tears that streamed down her cheeks. "It's been too long. I can't do it at a moment's notice." She fought to school her face into the proper mask, to fill her eyes with the necessary emotions, while her true self retreated into the depths. She looked up at Severus. She knew her expression was imperfect, but he would not find fault in her eyes. "There," she said. "There, damn you."

He did not bother to probe her gaze. Instead he dropped down on the bed beside her and took her abruptly into his arms.

"I wish they would _all_ go away," she whispered fiercely against his chest.

Severus said nothing. There was, after all, nothing reasonable to say.

* * *

Their open courtship soon reached a point where they were able to spend large portions of the day together. And since there were few public courting spots in Knockturn Alley, inevitably she ended up in his rooms. 

As pleasant as it would have been to spend that time in bed together, it was impractical for a number of reasons. One was the thinness of the walls—there was enough casual interest in Professor Snape's new girlfriend that rumors that he was already bedding her would have run rampant from the tongues of the building's other occupants. Another was the fact that she was, from the perspective of both sides, officially his apprentice, and her education in the subject of Potions had been badly neglected for the past month.

Consequently, they spent their "courting time" studying. Severus had filled one of his trunks with books and journals, and Sarah—unable to handle many of the ingredients called for in the Dark potions—pored over them while Severus paced or brewed.

She also spent far more time than she would have liked bent over the sink, heaving. Her stomach, squashed up against her ribs, was ridiculously sensitive, and the potions they were studying required terrible ingredients and sometimes equally terrible procedures. She knew _The Collection and Preparation of Human Ingredients_ from cover to cover now, but at the cost of both peace of mind and peace of digestion.

The fact that it was only her present condition that prevented her from having to make these potions herself was reason enough to wish that she could keep Severian safely in her womb permanently, whatever the discomfort.

Their nights, however, continued in study of a more pleasant nature, although they had reached a point where desperate desire had given way to more practical realities. As often as not, they were content merely to sleep curled together, Severus's hand balanced protectively over his son.

* * *

It was on such a night, just as she was drifting off, that Sarah was reawakened by a horribly familiar voice on the street outside. There had been sounds of women quarrelling, but that was hardly anything unusual, and she had been too sleepy to go to the window to observe the fight. But now, with dreadful clarity, a woman said, "This is a bawdy house! Cissy, you cannot possibly..." 

That voice was unforgettable—it had featured far too often in Sarah's nightmares.

"_Bella!_" Sarah hissed, struggling to sit up. All the threats the woman had made came rushing back to her memory, and she felt for her wand.

But Severus was already up, throwing on his robes over his nightshirt. "Why should Narcissa come here?" he whispered, troubled. "Bellatrix I understand, but..."

He slipped out into the kitchen. Sarah came to the bedroom door. There were footsteps—more than one person—on the stairs, and the low squabbling of women's voices. Narcissa Malfoy, she remembered, was Bella's sister, as well as Draco's mother. Severus lit the lamps with a wave of his wand.

There was a knock at the outer door.

With a quick signal to Sarah to shut the bedroom door—she was, she realized, without her illusion belt—Severus lowered the wards and reached for the handle. Sarah pushed the bedroom door closed and slumped against it, her ear pressed to the wood.

"Bellatrix," Severus said. "I might have known you would call on me before long. But I hardly imagined you would bring your sister here, of all places."

"Severus!" said the other woman's voice, low and desperate. "Please, may I come in?"

"Of course, Narcissa." There was a brief and uncomfortable pause, and Sarah guessed from the footsteps that Bella had come in as well, a supposition confirmed a moment later when Severus said, with mild disdain, "And you as well."

"Are we alone?" Narcissa asked in a whisper.

"Of course he's not alone," Bella said mockingly. "Come out, Sarah!"

Before Sarah could even think what to do, let alone get off a spell, purposeful footsteps strode across the floor, and the door was pushed open with force. She slid painfully over the floorboards, unable to get up or get out of the way in time. Severus was already threatening, "Bellatrix!" But Bella knocked Sarah's wand from her hand before she could use it, then grabbed the girl by the hair and hauled her to her feet. Sarah cried out in pain.

"Don't – touch – my – wife!" Severus said. He had his wand pointed at the dark-haired woman, and a furious expression on his face.

Sarah did not know if his words had been intentional, or whether they had merely slipped out, but she gasped as Bella let her go and stepped away. She leaned against the doorframe, trying to remain upright, her scalp throbbing.

"Wife, is it?" Bella asked. She had drawn her wand faster than an eye blink, threatening him with it. But now she turned both eyes and wand upon Sarah, who was protectively covering her tender head with one hand. "So, girl, you've decided not to keep your agreement."

The ice in the woman's voice set the girl trembling all the worse. She was not certain that Severus could stop Bella in time if the woman chose to fire off a deadly curse.

"Bella, no!" A slender woman with long, pale hair—Narcissa Malfoy, it appeared—stepped forward, her own wand drawn. "Severus, I didn't want her to come with me..." Then, as she got a good look at Sarah for the first time, she stated the obvious in a shocked tone. "She's pregnant!"

"The Dark Lord has already decided to entrust me with her training, Bellatrix," Severus said, ignoring Narcissa for the moment. "Or do you intend to challenge his orders?"

"You _lie!_" Bella's face, as her disbelief slowly faded, showed what a blow this information was to her. "You...you've used the...this situation to your advantage!"

"I assume you refer to the fiasco at the Ministry?" Severus said silkily. "Yes, I used your foolish failure to my advantage, Bellatrix. You would have done the same."

"You were not there!" Bella protested heatedly. "But then, you are always absent while the rest of us run the real dangers, are you not, Snape?"

"That's not fair!" Sarah said, fear and anger stiffening her spine. While they had been arguing, Sarah had spied her wand lying on the floor, but Bella's demeanor suggested it would be unwise to reach for it just yet. "You think it's easy to pretend to Dumbledore!"

"If it _is_ a pretense," Bella scoffed. "I warned you before: there is no reason to trust his loyalty!"

"Then you believe the Dark Lord himself is mistaken in me?" Severus asked. "You really think I could deceive him, Bellatrix? The most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever known?"

Bella's expression faltered.

"And I told you before," Sarah said, with as much coldness as she could muster. She bent with deliberate and obvious care to retrieve her wand, not taking her eyes from Bella's any longer than necessary. "If I ever see a hint of his disloyalty, I will kill him myself."

Bella snorted, although she glanced at Sarah's wand hand uneasily. "Your lover? Your..._husband_—did I hear correctly, Snape? Yes, Narcissa," she turned to her sister, "the girl is pregnant—until a few weeks ago she was his _student!_ Do you trust him now?"

"I have no choice!" Narcissa said, in tears. "Lucius is in jail. No one else can be there to help Draco—"

"_Narcissa!_" Bella hissed. "The Dark Lord himself told you not to speak of the plan to anyone!"

"If the Dark Lord has forbidden you to speak of it," Severus said quickly, "you must obey him."

Narcissa gasped, in audible desperation.

"There, you see!" Bella said triumphantly. "Even Snape agrees!"

Sarah dared take the first free breath she had drawn since the two woman had arrived. Whatever Narcissa wanted, she would not even be permitted to ask for it. They would leave. And then the only thing they would have to fear was Bella's desire for retribution...which might still be held in check by her fear of the Dark Lord. Sarah shot a glance at Severus. What she saw there made all her relief evaporate in an instant.

He turned away purposefully, moving around the flat. He had reestablished the wards as soon as the women had entered, but now he brandished his wand at each of the walls, the ceiling and the floor, murmuring, "_Munio silencio!_"

"What are you doing, Snape?" Bella asked suspiciously.

"Perhaps we can all be a little more...civil?" he said smoothly. "As followers of the same cause?" In a pointed gesture, he put his wand away, indicating that the others should follow suit. When even Bella, glaring furiously at him, had done so, he went on, "It so happens that I already know of this plan. Do you think that the Dark Lord would hide this from his spies inside Hogwarts?" He inclined his head vaguely in Sarah's direction. "But if we had not known, you realize, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of the greatest treachery to the Dark Lord."

Sarah heart beat a frantic staccato. She knew of no plans that involved Draco—not the Dark Lord's plans, at least—despite the fact that Severus was usually more open with her these days about such information. Regardless, it was logical to assume that if this plan involved Draco, and if Narcissa had approached Severus for help, it had something to do with Hogwarts. But if the Dark Lord had not told him, if he were only pretending now, fishing for information... Doubtless it was a risk he had taken successfully before, but she had never had to stand by watching it.

Narcissa had started slightly at his accusation, but now she said, with a triumphant glance at her sister, "I thought you must have known about it!"

Bella's returning look was contemptuous.

Severus pointedly ignored the female Death Eater. "What is it you wish to ask of me, Narcissa? I fear that Draco is less willing to accept my help than he once was."

"He is my only son!" Narcissa pleaded, tears flowing vigorously from her eyes. "He is still a child!"

"The boy is not shrinking from his task," Bella said. "He seems eager to prove himself. He is sixteen years old, not an infant! Your weakness shames us all!"

"I am his mother!" Narcissa snapped at her sister. "I cannot help..." She turned back to Severus, as if more hopeful of sympathy there. "Why did the Dark Lord choose my son for this task? If it was to punish Lucius..."

"Narcissa, if you are imagining that I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind..."

The woman burst out sobbing. As ridiculous as she was making herself, Sarah could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for her. If it were Severian who had been assigned whatever task Draco had been given... She exchanged glances again with Severus. He frowned.

"If Draco succeeds," Severus said soothingly, "he will be rewarded; he may even redeem his father—"

"But he won't succeed!" wailed Narcissa. "Even the Dark Lord himself—"

Sarah's breath caught._ Does the Dark Lord intend for Draco to kill Harry Potter?_

"_Cissy!_" Bella hissed.

"I only meant that...that no one has ever succeeded. He's only a boy, Severus! How can he possibly...surely the Dark Lord intends for him to be killed trying!"

No doubt, Sarah thought ruefully, he intended that very thing. But could it possibly be Potter that Narcissa meant? Surely one boy had a greater-than-even chance to kill another, if he were trying to do so in secret instead of in an open duel. And the only person who had ever tried to kill Potter before was the Dark Lord...

When Severus did not immediately respond, Narcissa's whimpering went up a note. "Please, Severus! You have always been Draco's favorite teacher. And Lucius's friend."

_How little_ _had Lucius told his wife about either the true nature of that friendship or the recent strain upon it?_

"Please, I beg of you—!"

Severus cut Narcissa off firmly. "The Dark Lord will not change his mind, and I am not stupid enough to try to persuade him."

_Particularly_, Sarah thought, _if Severus is not supposed to know about this at all_. But if that really were so...if the Dark Lord had indeed failed to inform his spy of a plan involving Hogwarts... A chill began creeping up from her bare toes.

"Surely, Narcissa, you realize precisely how angry with Lucius the Dark Lord is?" In spite of the woman's increasingly strident weeping, he went on, "Your husband was supposed to be in charge that night. And instead of retrieving the prophecy, he permitted himself to be captured, and many others with him. The Dark Lord was forced to enter the Ministry himself, revealing his return before he was ready to do so. No one," Severus shot a disdainful look at Bella, "dares speak for Lucius...or for his son."

Bella's lips had formed a snarl, but it faded quickly as Narcissa turned her reddened and reproachful eyes upon her sister. Despite Bella's bold words earlier, her distress at her inability to protect her nephew was, just for a moment, etched clearly on her face.

"If I had a son," Bella said haughtily, "I would not hesitate, I would not ask—"

"It's true," Narcissa said, lowering her head, clutching at her hair. "I dared not—" she made a low moan— "I dared not say..._anything_ in his presence."

"You were wise." Severus shook his head. "There is nothing I can do, Narcissa."

"_But Draco will be killed!_"

Severus did not answer. His face was set in an expression that Sarah recognized as the one meant to hide any pity he might be feeling.

Narcissa's eyes, now roving in wild desperation of any help, lighted upon the pregnant girl standing in the bedroom doorway. She drew two long, shuddering breaths, and then suddenly she threw herself to her knees. "Please, Severus! If he were _your_ child, _your _son...!" With her long, blonde hair flowing back and her hands clenched together before her, her face streaked with tears, Narcissa Malfoy seemed the very picture of a grieving Madonna. "Please, I'll do _anything!_"

"You abase yourself, Narcissa!" Bella lunged to her sister's elbow and tried to force her to stand. "Groveling before—"

"Let me alone, Bella!" Narcissa shook off her grip.

Severus had turned away, as if ashamed of the woman's behavior himself, but Sarah could see, as the two women could not, the trace of a smirk on his lips before he mastered himself. _Is he so pleased_, she wondered with a sinking heart, _to have a highborn woman groveling at his feet?_ But a moment later he caught her eye. There was concern in his dark gaze, and her hand followed the brief flicker of his glance to touch the curve of her stomach.

"It might be possible," he said, turning, "for me to help Draco." He extended a hand to help Narcissa rise. But she caught hold of it tightly, as if she never meant to let go.

"Of course!" she gasped. "_You_ could do it! Oh, Severus, you could do it instead of Draco!"

"I said _help_, Narcissa!" His face was hard again. "Do you suppose the Dark Lord would hold your son blameless if I had to act in his place?"

"But you'll _help_ him?" Narcissa's eyes were wide and shining with hope, and she got to her feet, still clinging to him earnestly. The woman's fawning adoration sent an unaccustomed stab of jealousy through Sarah's gut.

"If Draco permits it," Severus cautioned.

"No!" Narcissa begged. "He doesn't know, he hasn't any idea how dangerous this is!"

"I will do my best to protect him." Severus extricated his hand from her grasp. "More than that I cannot promise."

"No, of course not!" Bella scoffed. "Fine words and clever evasions. Just as he uses with the Dark Lord. Just as he uses with all of us."

Narcissa's eyes widened. "You must promise me, Severus! Otherwise I shall go mad with fear!"

Severus seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he let his expression thaw slightly. "I promise you: I will protect Draco to the best of my ability, Narcissa. But you must warn him not to resist my help."

Sarah had been anxiously wondering, as both women failed time and again to speak clearly about Draco's secret task, how Severus meant to discover the truth behind it. She felt almost certain now that he did not know, because he had spoken even less openly of it than they did. But she suddenly realized the gambit he had just played, in agreeing to watch over Draco. Draco knew of the task, and if Severus was to help him... Of course—the thought came with a cold chill—he might well be placing himself in a position where he would actually have to help Draco complete the task...or fall under suspicion. And if he was not supposed to know about the task to begin with... Sarah's mind whirled with all the grim possibilities. Had he gotten in over his head?

"Will you...will you swear an Unbreakable Vow to protect him? To help him?" Narcissa asked, her eyes eager with her need to press for more. "I cannot endure this without feeling sure..."

Bella's demeanor, which had become almost bored in her disgust, shifted so suddenly that everyone was aware of it. She had scented prey—it was in every line of her. "An Unbreakable Vow?" she sneered. "_Prove_ his devotion to our cause?" She laughed her horrible laugh. "Now you will see, Sarah, where his loyalties _really_ lie!"

"I WILL _NOT!_" Sarah shouted. Panic at the possible outcome of this turn in the conversation wracked her so violently that it was testimony to the strength of his training that she was able to maintain her proper projection of self at all. "I will not permit my husband to bind himself to _any_ other woman with _any_ sort of vow! Least of all one that... YOU!" She pointed a trembling finger at Bella. "How do I know you have not put your sister up to this? How do I know you have not agreed together to word such a Vow in such a way that you can twist it to his death?"

Bella's face paled of its triumphant flush, and her voice became defensive again. "Narcissa is not capable of such pretenses."

"And you!" Sarah rounded on Narcissa Malfoy. She was tempted to slap the woman's face; only the tear streaks restrained her. "How _dare_ you ask such an indecent thing? If you do not trust Severus to keep his word, then why come here at all?"

"Sarah..." he said warningly, behind her. The note in his voice hinted that she might have cost him the chance to obtain vital information. But she did not care. An Unbreakable Vow meant death to the one who swore it, if he did not fulfill its terms. No one could ask such a thing without making it clear that they valued the deed above the other's very life. However innocent Narcissa's intentions might have been in trying to save her son, she had gone too far...

"_I_ will make sure Draco fulfills his task!" Sarah said. "Even if he _dies_ doing it!"

Narcissa's sudden, sharp keening was muffled only slightly when she lowered her face into her hands.

"Bellatrix," Severus said sharply, "get your sister out of here. Now!" He drew his wand and gestured at the door. It flew open, the wards dropping.

Bella's face was etched with hatred, although it was not clear that all of it was directed at the pair opposite her. She urged her weeping and now unresisting sister to the door. But she turned at the threshold for a parting shot:

"I'm not finished with you. Either of you!" she snarled.

Severus raised his wand and slammed the door in her face.

* * *

**A/N:** If anyone is interested in my thought processes as I was rethinking the events of "Spinner's End," here are the assumptions I made: 

1. On account of Sarah, Bella has developed a much more personal grudge against Snape. She's more interested in seeing him fall because he's interfered with _her_ than because she doesn't trust his loyalty to Voldie.

2. Although Bella still doesn't trust Snape, she has developed some doubts in her "Snape is a traitor" theory. Bella, like Voldie, trusts Sarah's loyalty to their cause completely. Despite Bella's attempts to brush off Sarah's trust in Snape as a foolish fondness for her lover, Sarah's unquestioned loyalty to Voldie makes it a little harder for Bella to accuse Snape convincingly.

3. Because Sarah has, in some ways, improved his position with Voldie, Severus is less worried about Bella's accusations than I believe he was in the original "Spinner's End."


	53. Ch 52: Save Me from My Solitude

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Gosh, I get tired of writing these. Copyright lawyers, don't you get the picture? This is just for fun, not for profit. And I don't have any money anyway.

**A/N:** I'm sorry I haven't been very prompt in answering reviews lately--moving is a pain! But I want to say again that I'm very grateful to everyone who reads my story, and especially to everyone who takes the time to review! Thanks to: Bellegeste, AlanaRose12, Lady Whitehart, lucidity, FunkyWitchOnFire, Samantha-Ives, Tribblelet, becca, Felicia and Ray Dragon. And a great big hug to my betas, cecelle and Lady Whitehart, without whom I wouldn't know whether I'm getting any of this right or not.

The first section of this chapter contains some theories about the events in the canon version of "Spinner's End." Because while I firmly believe that Snape did _not_ know what Draco's task was when Narcissa and Bella visited him, I feel equally sure that by the time Dumbledore comes to get Harry, Dumbledore not only knows about the Unbreakable Vow, but also that _he_ is the intended target. As I was working out Narcissa's motivations in the last chapter, some things occurred to me about the probable series of events leading up to "Spinner's End" in canon. And since they work here, too, I've included them in the story. :~)

This chapter is a bit on the short side. Originally it was part of the next chapter, which turned out to be just too long. It's still very long, so you'll have that to look forward to.

* * *

**Chapter 52: Save Me from My Solitude**

"I'm sorry," Sarah whispered, as tears made tracks down her own cheeks. She dared not turn and look at Severus. "I just couldn't bear it."

She expected sharp words of reproof—she deserved them, perhaps—but they did not come. Only her own tears came, falling faster and faster. She hardly heard his tread on the floor before he took her shoulders from behind.

"Sarah, it was necessary for me to find out..." But the tone was more explanatory than accusatory.

"I couldn't let you risk your life in the hands of those two..."

"I risked _both_ our lives." He breathed into her hair, and his arms slipped around her. "I should not have...I had to think quickly. Sometimes...I have always known that someday I might not think quickly enough."

"Both our lives?" Sarah echoed. "It was _you_ they wanted to swear the Vow."

"I told them we knew of Draco's task. _Both_ of us. If Bella should mention that fact to the Dark Lord, it will immediately become clear that I was lying...and lying for only one possible purpose: to obtain information with which I had not been entrusted."

"Then you didn't know?"

"No. And because you would have known I was lying, the Dark Lord can only assume that you, too, were spying...truly spying...upon him."

Sarah felt as if the breath had been pressed from her lungs.

"Dear God! Will we have to leave?"

He was silent, considering this, for far too long, his breath warm on her head where Bella had nearly jerked the hair out.

"Perhaps not," he said, at last. "This task is almost certain to take place at Hogwarts. Why else would Narcissa come to me?"

"I thought that, too."

"Yes. Then consider this: Narcissa almost certainly came here soon after her audience with the Dark Lord. As soon she was able to collect herself sufficiently to realize that she could attempt to seek out my help, but before she had time to consider the impropriety of entering a man's rooms in Knockturn Alley after dark. Her interview might well have been earlier this evening."

"Then...you think that the Dark Lord may still inform you about the task?" In Sarah's heart, hope rose from the ashes.

"Unless he has already decided that I am not to be trusted, it seems unlikely that he would withhold such information from me. And since the fiasco at the Ministry, I have been more and more his favorite—one of the few he is willing to see at all, for the moment."

"But why would he not tell you first?" Sarah asked, unable to shake off all her anxiety.

"Perhaps he thought I would speak against it. Draco is scarcely sixteen, and less proficient a wizard than his father was at the same age. I fear it all too likely Narcissa is correct—that the Dark Lord has given him a task which is expected to prove fatal. But its exact nature may not have been firmly decided until he had called Narcissa and Draco before him to account for Lucius's failure. His long-term plans are often built up from a moment's caprice."

"But if he doesn't tell you...?"

Silence again. "If he suspects me now, in spite of all reason to think otherwise, it may already be impossible to escape from whatever trap he has set." He held her closer. "I will give the matter some thought."

Sarah turned in his arms. "I couldn't bear to lose you."

His arms tightened, but his voice tried to hold her at a distance. "You must be stronger than that, Sarah," he chided.

"Maybe _I_ should make you swear an Unbreakable Vow...to stay alive." Her voice broke.

"Foolish girl," he said, more ruefully than harshly. It sounded like a caress.

* * *

The next day, Severus Snape went to confession. Perhaps privately (Sarah suspected), he felt the need for some form of reconciliation with his Maker. But ostensibly, the purpose was to prepare for his marriage to Miriam's cousin.

Miriam had been expending considerable effort during the previous week to convince him that this was best course of action. It would, she had argued, legitimate their relationship in the eyes of the Alley's residents, meaning that Sarah need no longer live with the Grimms. It would also give Sarah a degree of status that would permit her to be accepted in Knockturn as more insider than outsider. And more importantly than any of these things, it would make public—admittedly for a very small value of the word 'public'—the fact that he had married a young woman named Sarah that summer. An ordinary young woman from Bristol, who could scarcely be connected to such a noble house as that of Darkglass. It was a sleight of hand that might prevent scandal later on.

No, Severus had protested, it was too hazardous, what with Connor undoubtedly still listening for word of his enemy. Her importance to him, thus acknowledged, would put Sarah in even greater danger than before. Their open courtship was risky enough. He would not even consider it.

But his inadvertent admission of their marital status to Bellatrix last night had changed his mind. It was altogether unlikely the woman would keep that information to herself, and if (or, more realistically, when) the Dark Lord questioned him about it, he must have something in his mind to supply the necessary images and emotions to satisfy his Master. A picture of Albus Dumbledore presiding over a ceremony with a frightened and unwilling girl would not do.

Severus was gone for hours. In part, that was because of the arrangements that were necessary: among other things, there could be no banns. But it was a very pale-faced priest who solemnized the marriage of an almost equally pale-faced man and his anxious young bride that afternoon.

In theory, only Severus's family were to attend, but it was impossible, in a place where there were so few entertaining public events, not to attract the curious. In the end, more than a dozen people, many of them children, pressed into the chapel behind Nick and Devin Crabbe, Jacob and Cornelia Grimm, and Miriam Snape. Caius Snape had refused to come, with the threat that he would speak up against them if Miriam spoke one more word to urge him.

Sarah's dress robes would not fit over her stomach now, but Miriam had sent to Flora for hers. (Martin Mantua could not get time off on such short notice, and Flora was hesitant to bring an active toddler into the church.) Sarah felt oddly protected in Flora's pale blue robes. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that she was surrounded by people who would protect her...who had already put themselves at risk to do so. She had never, in all her life, felt that kind of safety. It was the chief thing of which she was conscious during the ceremony.

This second ceremony was not a great deal longer than their first had been. Almost before she could properly realize it, the silver band he had given her then was on her finger once more. It was no longer a Portkey—Professor Dumbledore had removed the spell before they left Hogwarts—but she had not dared to wear it openly. She cherished the idea that she now could, if only for a little while.

Wearing the matching silver ring which she had not seen since that fateful day, Severus's slender hand seemed a stranger to her. Especially when he used it to toss out a handful of Knuts at the door of the church for the children to scramble after. Sarah, in her turn, threw the little nosegay of Ever-Blooming Flowers that Cornelia had made for her. She was delighted to see it fall into the hands of the girl who had carried her message to Miriam that day, so many months ago.

The joy Sarah felt in finally being able to openly acknowledge their marriage was short-lived, however. After a wedding supper, held at the Grimms', they tried to retreat back to the flat. But by now, this whole end of Knockturn knew about the wedding, and unwilling to pass by such a darling excuse for a party, the inhabitants had thrown themselves into merrymaking with a vengeance. Someone had brought a wireless to a window, and the air was filled with raucous music. The reappearance of the bride and groom set off a general hubbub. Lewd jokes flew thick and fast, and Severus had to rescue her rather forcefully from being carried off, whether to dance with the revelers or for some other purpose of their amusement.

In the end, Severus had to Apparate into the building and open the Floo connection long enough for her to step through from the Grimms'. But before long, the crowd realized that the newlyweds had managed to get to their rooms, and a variety of spying devices were sent up to the windows. Cursing, Severus added an Imperturbable Charm to the other wards. It did not entirely block out the sound of the partying down on the street, however.

"This was the sort of thing I was afraid of," Severus growled.

They had lain down on the bed with their clothes still on, too tired to think of getting up to what everyone was imagining.

"Well, it can't be helped now," Sarah said. Truth to tell, she was finding the insanity of the whole business almost inexorably amusing. If she had really been Miriam's virgin cousin from Bristol, it would have undoubtedly been more annoying. But as it was, when their tormentors got into the building shortly after this and began banging on the walls and the floor, she started giggling furiously.

"This is not amusing!"

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I just...it's just...did you ever think anything could be worse than our first honeymoon?"

Severus stared at her, his face wavering between a blank look and an angry, hurt one.

"I only meant," she said, more seriously, as she reached out to stroke his face, "that I'm happier now than I was then. In spite of all that out there."

He got up and cast _Munio Silencio_ on the walls, floor and ceiling, and a blessed quiet fell. Only the failing light of the evening sun, filtered by the curtains, came through the windows now.

When he returned to the bed, his dark eyes studied her for only a moment, bewildered and contented all at once, before he leaned in to kiss her. "If only I dared to be so happy," he whispered.

"Someday," she whispered back, her hand going again to press the side of his face.

For all that she had thought they were too tired to consummate their vows, it happened nonetheless. Almost without intending to, they went from gentle, undemanding touches to an irrepressible need to relieve their shared longings. Even her belly seemed less in the way than usual, despite its ever-increasing roundness. Every caress was a reminder that this child would be born altogether legitimate, and the joy she felt in that was nearly as great as her joy in stroking the ring on Severus's hand. She did not doubt he would take it off again, as soon as the need for secrecy demanded, if not sooner. But for now, it marked him as hers, and she reveled in it.

Beginning their relationship as they had, Sarah had seldom felt anything more in the act than physical pleasure, and she was certain it had been the same for him. But this time was one of those when their souls seemed to touch, almost to join, as intimately as their bodies, and the effort made for a shared climax seemed hardly any extra effort at all. When it was over, though, Sarah felt more drained than she ever had, and from the gaunt lines of his face, she guessed that Severus felt the same. He collapsed beside her, breathless. She intended to curl up to him, in just another minute, as she usually did in sleep. But she was so weary. In just another minute...

* * *

Sarah thought, at first, that it was the flash of one of the intermittent fireworks outside the window that had awoken her. But she knew her mistake when she saw the shape beside her in the dark sitting up, clutching at his arm.

"What if he...?" she whispered, wavering between fear and relief. Every day that passed without this summons was, in one sense, a day to be feared—a day that passed without the Dark Lord deciding to tell his spy about Draco's mission at Hogwarts. In that respect, it was a good sign for Severus to be summoned so quickly. But then there was Bella and her machinations. And if she had succeeded so soon, despite her present disfavor, in gaining the Dark Lord's ear to reveal everything she knew about the Hogwarts Potions master...

"Prepare yourself." Severus was up, drawing on his robes. His voice was a harsh whisper. "He may summon you."

"But..." Sarah stopped herself. Severus had no choice. She had no choice. If their Dark master called, they would have to obey. A cold knot seemed to be tightening around her lungs, heart and gut. "Go," she urged, "before he gets impatient."

He slipped out the door without a kiss or word of farewell, but that was necessary. If the Dark Lord suspected that he truly cared for her... But no, if she were called before him now, everything would be revealed. She forced herself out of bed, feeling about on the floor for her shoes.

No, not everything, she chided herself desperately. The mere fact of her pregnancy did not implicate either of them as disloyal. The chief danger was that the carelessness, the risk that had been involved, might anger him.

Sarah wavered only a moment in indecision before she changed into her nightgown—it was late enough that it would make sense for her to have been asleep in bed. She fastened the illusion belt over it, just under her ribs, in the space that now passed for her waist. Over that went the old school robe she used as a dressing gown. She wished that her old dressing gown still fit—she did not want to remind the Dark Lord that she had, until recently, been a student. But it would not close around her stomach anymore, and it was absolutely necessary for it to appear that she was making a real effort to hide her pregnancy.

When she tried to fasten the buttons, she discovered that her hands were trembling too badly to manage it. She sank down on the bed, hoping that would steady her. What was happening at this very moment? An ordinary interview, in which Severus would be given the necessary information about Draco to carry out his role at Hogwarts? Or was Severus writhing on the ground, tortured with _Crucio_, with Bella watching in delight?

The very thought of Bellatrix Lestrange hardened Sarah's resolve. She brushed roughly at the tears that had sprung to her eyes, and forced her hands through the motions of buttoning her robe.

If he was going to be sent back for her, he wouldn't have been gone so long. It must have been more than ten minutes. No, the clock said otherwise: barely five. Severian gave her a firm jab. _Dear God, will he be alive in another ten minutes, if the Dark Lord calls for me?_

Tears came unstoppably now. She sobbed and gasped far worse than Narcissa had done last night, her whole body shaking, although whether from the sobs themselves or her effort to hold them back, it was difficult to say.

_Stop this!_ She could not afford to lose control. Not now. If only Severus were here to speak sternly to her, to bring her to her senses! _Think! You're crying: it can't be hidden. How can you use it?_

_I'm terrified that the Dark Lord will hurt my child_.

_You would be terrified of that, at this moment, even if you were as loyal as he believes you to be. You have deceived him_.

He would punish her. She shook with sobbing at the fear of that. No, _focused_ her fear on that. Yes, he might very well punish her, unless she gave him reason not to.

If Bella had managed to have her complaints heard, what would he know? That she was pregnant? Maybe not. Bella had known that before and not revealed it. But that they were married...had been married without the Dark Lord's blessing or permission... Yes, that information might give the woman the revenge she desired. And if that were so...

Sarah struggled to alter today's events in her mind, to place them further in the past, before their unexpected visitors. She had married Severus here in Knockturn, but it had been a week or more ago. Days, at least.

She jumped sharply at the crack of someone Apparating outside the door. She barely had time to stand up before Severus was through the outer door and into the bedroom.

"Are you ready?" He studied her uplifted face grimly.

"What does he know?"

"Nothing, yet. Or so I hope. He said he has instructions for us, but he wants to convey them to us both together." His eyes went to her seemingly flat stomach. "That secret will not keep."

"I know," Sarah whispered back. She took his hands and squeezed them. "I'm frightened."

"I... Do not prevent me from doing whatever is necessary to protect you, Sarah." The edge on his voice was jagged. "We must go, now."

He stalked to the fireplace, lifted the block on the Floo connection, and conjured a fire on the grate.

"Where are we going?" Sarah asked, mystified. She had expected another Portkey.

"Notting Chase. It appears," Severus said, when she gasped, "that your uncle's family are also being forced to pay a recompense for the incident at the Ministry, by serving directly as the Dark Lord's hosts."

He held out the tin of Floo Powder, and Sarah took a pinch and cast it into the fireplace. It was an uncomfortably small fireplace, but she had developed a technique for folding her ungainly body into it. She had hoped that it would never be necessary again.

Eyes closed against the soot, and trying hard to keep her voice from trembling, she forced out her destination.

**

* * *

A/N:** Did you catch the Rickman moment? :~)

Lady Whitehart assures me that a plot bunny named "Severus's Confession" has been conceived. I'll inform you all when it is born. ;~)

Speaking of which, I'll reiterate that although I've made my leading characters Catholic, because it seemed to suit them, I'm not. Lady Whitehart has tried to keep me from messing up too egregiously, but any remaining errors are my fault, not hers.

Yes, I realize that this is a bad spot to leave you in. Next chapter soon.


	54. Ch 53: Precious Little Ingenue

**Obligatory Disclaimer:  
**There are bigger fish in the sea than me,  
So please don't sue for this little spree  
Into the world of Ms. JKR;  
Such an effort won't take you far.

I'm much too poor to be worth your while,  
So please understand as I say with a smile  
That all of this is done for enjoyment,  
So kick back, read, and find other employment.

**A/N:** I am SO sorry! I forgot that I hadn't posted this chapter here on ffnet yet. My life has been so insane in the wake of this move. Just when I think I have things under control and will be able to find time to write, something else breaks loose. But I promise I won't abandon this story!

I'm very grateful for my many kind reviewers: cecelle, Lady Whitehart, lucidity, AlanaRose12, Samantha-Ives, Kerry Bo Berry, and all the regulars who weren't able to review last time because of the ffnet glitch. I value each and every one of you. I also appreciate all of you who take the time to read, whether or not you review. And as usual, I am most grateful to Lady Whitehart and Cecelle, who keep me from doing silly thingsas I write (like forgetting whether or not someone is standing up!).

I find it slightly ironic that the last time I took a hiatus (when HBP came out), the story was also at the point of a visit with Voldemort. I REALLY hope to be back to writing soon. This is getting ricidulous.

* * *

**Chapter 53: Precious Little Ingénue **

She emerged in the parlor. She had not seen this room while she was being held captive, but she recognized it with a sudden shock of forgotten memory: they had always come here through the Floo, when she was little.

Her cousin Chester was standing in the middle of the room, looking expectantly at the fireplace. His expression changed to relief when she appeared.

"Sarah," he said warmly. But there was a hint of fear in his eyes, and his face had lost its accustomed good humor. Sarah had been braced to confront one of the Notts as Aunt Portia's murderer, but she felt now that it could not have been her cousin.

"Chester," she returned. "I'm glad to see you again...under better circumstances." Her mind screamed _no, these are not better circumstances!_ But she silenced those thoughts. Searching for something else to speak of, something Sarah Darkglass Snape would care about, she settled on the very question that she most wanted her cousin to answer. "Have you taken the Mark?"

"I have been given that privilege." But she could tell, from the forced way he said it, that it had been no privilege at all. "After all," he continued, attempting to sound as light as he used to, "with my father in prison, someone in our family must serve in the Dark Lord's cause."

"Of course," Sarah said.

"Are you alright?" he asked; he was studying her tear-stained face.

The Floo whooshed behind her, saving her from having to answer.

"Come, Sarah," Severus said, taking her by the elbow.

Chester, who had gone silent and pale in the other man's presence, led them into the drawing room. It had been made over in much the same way as the room at Darkglass Hall: the walls were heavily draped, and the Dark Lord's throne placed on a dais. This time, however, he was not sitting on it. The snake, Nagini, was curled up there instead, and her master was pacing before the fireplace.

"Ah, Severus," he greeted them. "And my dear Sarah. Leave us, Nott," he snapped at Chester.

The door had clicked shut by the time Sarah had made her proper obeisance. The Dark Lord gestured magnanimously for her to stand. "My loyal servants, I have brought you here for a very special purpose. You are to observe the final end of..." he broke off suddenly, as he looked more carefully at Sarah. At her tear-swollen eyes—she felt him sifting her thoughts—and then further down. "But what is this?"

She had known it was coming, but still she could scarcely breathe. She let her hands clench protectively over her stomach. "What, My Lord?"

"You seem...unusually upset. And..." His red eyes narrowed. He gestured with his wand. Sarah braced herself against the worst, but the spell merely severed the buttons from her robe, and forced her to let it fall open.

"What have we here?" he asked, and although he spoke lightly, there was a hint of displeasure in every word. He flicked his wand again, and the illusion belt unfastened itself and flew into his hand. He studied it with interest. "Such a fascinating device. But what have you to hide?"

He looked at her, at the bulge of her belly that was now horribly obvious beneath her nightgown.

Sarah, driven more by terror than reason, fell painfully to her knees. "Forgive me, My Lord!" She thought more tears would come, but her eyes were as dry as her mouth.

"You are with child?" the Dark Lord asked icily. He turned his terrible gaze upon Severus. "Yours, of course."

"Yes, Master," Severus said, far more steadily than Sarah could have managed.

There was a long and dreadful silence.

"You were cautioned to the greatest possible discretion, were you not?" the Dark Lord said at last. "I see now that you have risked discovery in the most foolish of ways!"

"No one knows!" Sarah burst out. "The illusion belt—"

"Yes: where did you get this?"

"Severus's aunt is a midwife, My Lord."

His eyes flicked to Severus. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw there, because he turned back to Sarah.

"And no one at the school was aware of your condition?" He sounded dubious. No—more than dubious; it was as if he already knew. But no, he could not have...

"No one, My Lord," Sarah said, but she heard her voice falter.

_Sweet Merlin, what will I do now?_

"Curious," the Dark Lord said. "Draco Malfoy reported to me that you had spent several weeks in the infirmary."

Sarah's breath caught. Finally, with every instant of the silence weighing heavier and heavier upon her, she found her voice. "I'm sorry, Master. I was afraid, but I should not have tried to deceive you—I knew you would discover the truth. The nurse did find out my condition. But I lied to her."

"And what lie was this?" the Dark Lord asked, his voice still edged with anger.

"A lie that would please the Muggle-lovers," Sarah said. "I told them the father of the child was a Muggle from my village. That I had slept with him over Christmas."

"And you were not expelled for this?"

"It was too near the end of the year. My Head of House took pity on me. Since I had concealed it well from my classmates, no one else need know."

"And what of Dumbledore?" He almost spat the name.

"My Lord," Severus answered for her, "the Headmistress at that time was still Dolores Umbridge. Minerva McGonagall would not have taken such a problem to the woman. As for Dumbledore, he mentioned nothing of it to me when I spoke with him about Sarah's apprenticeship. I feel sure that, if he knew of her condition, he would not have approved her continuing at Hogwarts."

"I see." The Dark Lord turned and paced deliberately toward his throne. Nagini vacated the seat, slithering down to curl around the great chair's legs, and her master seated himself. With that one motion, the sense of being welcomed as his favorites was gone altogether. "I am disappointed that you would take such an immense risk. Why would you permit such a thing, Severus? With potions at your disposal that could have removed the problem?"

Sarah had found it necessary to shift awkwardly around on her knees to remain facing the Dark Lord. She was further from him now, but somehow that did not make her feel any safer. Almost the opposite, in fact—as if he were more likely to send a curse at her if she were far enough away to be dismissed out of hand. But in spite of that, in spite of Severus's injunction that she allow him to draw all the blame onto himself, she could not keep herself from speaking.

"I deceived him, Master," she said. Both their eyes turned to her. "I concealed it from him until it was too late to do away with it safely."

"And why would you do such a thing?" the Dark Lord asked, in irritation.

The answer burst from her. "Because I wanted my father's family to have a male heir."

"And you considered _Severus Snape _worthy of engendering the Darkglass heir?" The question was clearly mocking, but there was only one possible answer.

"Yes, My Lord."

To her surprise, this response seemed to please the Dark Lord. "Severus Snape has proved himself more worthy of my trust than many others. Your ability to perceive his value does you credit. However," he went on more harshly, "that is no excuse for your thoughtlessness!"

Sarah cowered, certain that at any moment she would be hit with the Cruciatus Curse.

"My Lord," Severus said quickly. "The girl takes too much blame to herself. I knew she might conceive. I wished it. I wished to bind her to me with stronger ties."

An eerie, humorless chuckle reverberated through the room. "And you have succeeded. Oh, I have already taken note of your rings, Severus." All traces of amusement faded. "At least you have not abandoned her to ignominy, to bear her child alone and friendless. But to do all this, to marry her without my permission... No, Severus, you ought to have realized that was unwise. Surely I made it perfectly clear, when she was presented, that I would stand in the stead of her father?"

"You did, My Lord." Severus bowed deeply. "But you should know, My Lord, that others were plotting to do the same. Franklin Nott and Bellatrix Lestrange had agreed together to force Sarah to secretly wed Nott's second son. Only Nott's abysmal failure at the Ministry, as well as my own interference, prevented them from carrying out their plan."

The Dark Lord's frown had deepened while Severus spoke. Now he said, "That may be. But you succeeded where they did not. And I have not heard that she resisted either your attentions or your decision to marry her without my consent. Did you raise any such objection, Sarah? Did you even recall that you were to look upon me as a father?"

Sarah let her head sag, bowing as far over her knees as she could manage. Of all her fears, she had truly not given much thought to the possibility that this, of all things, would anger him most. "Forgive me, My Lord. I had forgotten. I have been so long without a father. I had become accustomed to fending for myself. And when Severus began..." She stopped herself short, realizing that she was about to cast blame on him.

"You looked to Severus for guidance, I see. I regret that you did not think to turn to me. Although, I admit, that is perhaps understandable, since you had no ability to seek out my consent independently."

"I take all the fault to myself, My Lord." Severus drew his attention back. "I have manipulated the girl to my own ends from the beginning."

"She is too easy to manipulate," the Dark Lord answered. "I see now that she is truly not suited to the Inner Circle, regardless of her wishes."

Sarah's heart lifted so suddenly that, despite the fact that her eyes were still downcast, she hurried to cover the rush of feeling with a moan. "I am sorry, My Lord."

"And this child—it will be born soon?"

"Before school resumes," Severus answered. "I have given considerable thought to this, My Lord."

"The child must be fostered, of course." In spite of his displeasure, a note of satisfaction crept into the Dark Lord's voice: he had lost a degree of control over Sarah, but he could still exert his will upon her child. "I must ponder this matter."

He went silent again then, stroking Nagini's head. Sarah felt her terror growing, tangling her thoughts in desperate knots. Would he even give them the opportunity to suggest a guardian for their child? Or would he make the decision peremptorily, upon his own whim? It was unwise to speak, but as the minutes passed, she found it harder and harder to restrain herself. She looked to Severus, and his taut expression warned her that she must not risk angering the Dark Lord further. She drew a slightly louder breath than she intended, as she felt tears coming.

The red eyes of the being on the throne touched her sharply, then went to Severus. "You have already made provisions, have you not, Severus? Since you have given this difficulty such...considerable thought?" The words were mocking. Was the question a trap? Did he intend to decide against their wishes, whatever they might be, merely to punish them?

Severus spoke carefully. "My family is willing to care for the child."

"But your uncle renounced you long ago, did he not? Or has my return given him cause to alter his affections?"

"He has two daughters, my cousins, both married. Either is willing to take in the child."

"Knockturn Alley," the Dark Lord murmured low. "Many of the inhabitants are devoted to me. And yet I know so few of them personally now. Your cousins I know not at all. No, I think I would prefer a guardian more familiar to me. One whose faithfulness I can be assured of."

There was no mistaking his meaning. What Severus had long since warned her of had come to pass: their son was to be held hostage for their good behavior.

"Yes, I see a solution now. Your cousin, Sarah. Your cousin Chester Nott and his wife have no child of their own as yet. You agree, do you not, that they would prove to be devoted guardians?"

"Please, My Lord," Sarah gasped, trying to control her rising panic. "My Aunt Fiona has already threatened to kill my child. I fear for him to be kept here at Notting Chase."

"Then others _do_ know of this?" the Dark Lord said, his anger renewed.

"Only my uncle's family. And Bellatrix Lestrange. They kidnapped me and brought me here, to try to force me to marry my cousin Hannibal. Fiona was furious when she found that I was carrying a child—they knew it must be Severus's. It was because of their treatment of me that I was sent to the infirmary." Sarah felt regretful that she might be implicating Chester and Niniane with the others; but if that meant that Severian could remain in Knockturn Alley... No—her heart sank—the Dark Lord would probably just name another guardian of whose loyalty he could be assured.

"Nott!" the Dark Lord called sharply.

Chester, who must have been lurking in the next room, opened the door, his face anxious. "Yes, Master?"

"Bring your mother to me!"

The man blanched, and his mouth worked for a moment before he managed to say, "Yes, Master." He retreated quickly.

"Is no one capable of following my instructions!" The Dark Lord struck the arm of the throne, and Nagini slithered away toward the hearth. "My orders were clear enough. And yet all of my servants seem to have conspired to disregard my wishes, to risk my plans with their meddling! Even you, Sarah, in whom I had such hopes."

Sarah cowered more deeply again, but this time it seemed to anger him more. "Stand up, girl! I do not want you groveling on the floor when your aunt arrives."

This injunction promised nothing good for Fiona Nott. Sarah struggled to rise to her feet. Severus, after a moment's hesitation and a glance at their Dark master, came to her assistance.

"All of you disappoint me," the Dark Lord went on, in an aggrieved tone. "But I will allow the two of you to redeem yourselves. There is a task—the task concerning which I brought you here to be instructed. I fear greatly that the boy I have assigned to carry it out will prove to be as great a fool as his father. You will be responsible for seeing that this task is completed."

"Of course, My Lord," Severus said smoothly. Sarah murmured her willingness a moment later, her eyes lowered to hide how deeply this directive troubled her. Draco had been assigned to do something that (if Narcissa's comment could be taken literally) even the Dark Lord had not succeeded at. And now she and Severus were expected to back him up.

"This task is to remain entirely secret. You will speak of it to no one—even to others of my Death Eaters, Severus. Yes, you will exercise far greater care with _my_ secret than you have with your own."

"Yes, My Lord," Sarah answered, conscious of his continued displeasure, his lack of faith in her. Tears sprang to her eyes, burning damply.

"If no one else knows of this task," Severus said cautiously, "there should be no difficulty."

"Bellatrix knows of it," the Dark Lord said, as if the words tasted less sweet in his mouth than he had expected. "And her sister, the boy's mother. I see now that it was perhaps unwise to allow even my dear Bella to know this secret. She is too driven by her zeal; she often mistakes her intentions for my own."

A smirk twisted Sarah's lips slightly before she could hide it. Despite the Dark Lord's displeasure with Bellatrix, she had been a favorite so long that it might not please him that others would delight in her downfall. In truth, it troubled Sarah that she was so very glad to find that Bella's star was dimming, that the woman might soon be writhing on this floor, trying to make her own excuses. But Sarah had suffered too much grief these last few months on account of Bella's plotting and interference.

"Then, the boy is Draco Malfoy?" Severus asked.

"Yes. You approve of my selection, do you not, Severus? I believe the boy was, until recently, a favorite of yours."

"He has been an excellent pupil." Severus paused. "As you have not yet revealed the task you have assigned him, My Lord, I can hardly give an accurate evaluation."

"Ah, yes. The task." The Dark Lord was smirking noticeably. "Perhaps I should have given you the assignment long ago, Severus. But it has lately come to my remembrance that my primary opponent is _not_ Harry Potter—oh yes, the boy will be dealt with, in time—but no, before young Harry even existed, there was another who stood at the head of those who would resist Lord Voldemort's rule. He stands there to this day, although he attempts to conceal himself in Harry's shadow. But it is he who most protects the boy, it is he who leads the filthy rebels, it is he who thwarts me, time and again.

"I cannot reach him myself, of course, buried as he remains behind the wards of the school. But someone within those walls might catch him unawares. Unsuspecting. Unprotected. Even a child might manage it, do you not think?" The Dark Lord watched Severus expectantly, almost eagerly.

"The man is formidable," Severus said.

Sarah was not sure how he managed to sound so calm and thoughtful. It was _Albus Dumbledore_ whom Draco was meant to kill! Who _they_ were meant to make sure was killed... She had to force her shock into the hidden part of her mind, replacing it with the uncertainty that anyone would feel at being asked to destroy so powerful a wizard.

Severus went on, "Even caught unawares, it may be difficult to kill him."

"And yet you informed me that he is weakened. Injured. That his reflexes have become slower than they were."

"True," Severus conceded placatingly. "Perhaps the boy will find a way to manage it. I assume you have given him instructions?"

"I have _not_," the Dark Lord snapped. "Young Malfoy must prove his own worth, if he is to repay his family's debt to me. You are not to interfere, Severus, except as a last resort. If the boy succeeds on his own, you will be able to remain at Hogwarts. It will be simple enough, after that, to remove Minerva McGonagall. The way will be clear for you to take over as Headmaster."

_Sweet Merlin!_ Could Severus resist such a temptation? Sarah's heart dropped into her stomach, where Severian chose that moment to pummel it.

"That is, as you know, my desire, My Lord," Severus said, something near a true smile upon his face.

Sarah clung to her outward persona fiercely, looking at Severus with pride, while in the back of her mind, traitorous thoughts kept bubbling up. _If the Dark Lord wins, Severus will already have everything he wants. Are you sure, after all, that you can live with that? _Her words to Bella haunted her:_ If I doubt his loyalty, I will kill him myself. _Once, it had not mattered to her whether her lover was a Death Eater in truth or not. At what point had that changed? And what would she choose now? Dumbledore's side? Or Severus's, whichever that was in the end?

"You know that I reward faithful service, Severus. And Sarah, you will find that I can be generous indeed to those who prove their usefulness."

"Yes, Master," she said, bowing her head again. Although there had been no obvious word about Severian, Sarah could sense that he was offering her the chance to regain control of her child. _Is that how he wins followers? By promising them whatever it is they want most?_ A pang of self-loathing went through her, as she realized how truly tempting his offer might become.

"I will rely..." The Dark Lord broke off as a tentative knock sounded on the door. "Enter!"

It was Fiona Nott, escorted closely by her eldest son, as if he feared she might flee rather than obey this summons. She looked capable of doing so, her hands shaking noticeably, although she rubbed them together, trying to still or hide it. But she had been a Death Eater's wife for a very long time, and she came forward and knelt to kiss the hem of the Dark Lord's robe with a practiced grace. Her expression, as she gazed up at her Master, waiting for him to signal her to arise, was more confident, as if she had pulled herself together.

But the Dark Lord did not permit her to rise. "I have heard interesting things about your treatment of your niece, Lady Nott."

Sarah could not see her aunt's eyes, focused as they were on the Dark Lord, but a jolt seemed to go through Fiona. "The girl has always disliked me, in spite of my efforts to win her affection. Please, My Lord, do not judge me on the basis of her report!"

"Then you deny she was kidnapped and brought here? That she was made so ill that she spent weeks in the infirmary upon her return to school?"

"She was well enough when she left here!" Fiona protested. "As for kidnapping her, that was Franklin's idea, not mine. He and..." she broke off.

"And who?" the Dark Lord demanded.

"And...and Bellatrix, Master. I know you can see that is the truth!" Obviously Fiona, too, was aware of how high the female Death Eater stood in the Dark Lord's affections.

"Yes, I see. I do not blame you for her actions; I am not so unjust." He sounded mildly offended, as if she had wounded his feelings. "And yet I also have heard that you threatened the child your niece carries."

Fiona's eyes swung around to take in Sarah. When she saw the girl's pregnancy clearly revealed, her face became a contorted mixture of triumph, loathing and sudden anxiety. She looked quickly back to the Dark Lord.

"Surely, My Lord, you cannot approve of what she has done? I was thinking of my family's name!"

"And it did not occur to you that, regardless of who fathered him, the child is the grandson of Malcolm Darkglass?"

Fiona's mouth worked, but no words came out. Finally she said, "But...but...Snape is..."

"Severus Snape has served me well. Your husband's family, on the other hand..." The Dark Lord trailed off meaningfully, and Fiona cringed. "You see, Lady Nott, I am allowing for the possibility that your son Chester will serve me with the devotion of his _mother's_ family. That is why I am permitting him to act, for the time being, as guardian to Sarah's child while she completes her apprenticeship. You must agree that the boy ought to be raised here," he gestured, suggesting the opulence of the room, "in an atmosphere befitting a son of the Darkglass line."

Fiona stared at him like a rabbit suddenly cornered by a wolf.

He drew his wand from a fold of his robes. "But Sarah has pleaded with me that her child will not be safe under this roof. A regrettable difficulty. I see only one way to reassure her. You must offer her certainty of her child's protection here."

"Well...well...of course," Fiona stammered. Clearly she had figured out which way the wind was blowing. But there was no note of truth in her words. She was saying what must be said to please her fearsome guest. "Naturally I would welcome my brother's grandchild into my home."

"You must convince _Sarah_," the Dark Lord said, and the pleasure he was taking in manipulating the woman, making her dance to his tune like a marionette on strings, was all too evident. "Sarah, you do not believe her yet, I see."

Sarah had not been hiding her feelings about her aunt. There was no reason to. But now she sensed that Fiona was being driven in a direction that boded only humiliation, if not worse. And as much as she disliked the woman, as often as she had entertained the possibility that Fiona was somehow guilty of Portia's murder, seeing her now, rigid with pride in the family whose blood they both shared, Sarah felt a surprising disinclination to participate in making the woman suffer at the Dark Lord's hands.

And yet...she did not trust Fiona. Not with Severus Snape's son. Sarah wavered.

The Dark Lord seemed to take her silence for agreement. No doubt he would have manipulated whatever response she made into an agreement with his plans. And now he sprang the trap upon Fiona Nott.

"Yes, I suppose the only way to convince your niece is for you to swear an Unbreakable Vow."

Fiona startled. So did Sarah, although from long practice, she suppressed it better. Fiona turned to stare again at her niece, real terror bleeding into her look of hatred. She knew she had treated the girl too poorly to be able to expect mercy from her. Her eyes swung back to the man on the throne. "P...please, My Lord!"

"I myself will act as Bonder," the Dark Lord went on inexorably. "Sarah, will you kneel?" It was framed as an invitation, but one that could not be refused. She had no choice. Or so she kept telling herself as she tried to lower herself more carefully onto her already tender knees. She shot a glance at Severus, unlikely as it was that he could stop any of this from happening. But there was a glint of triumph in his eyes; he clearly had no compunctions about enjoying Fiona's utter defeat.

"Join hands," the Dark Lord instructed.

Awkwardly, neither really wanting to touch the other, Sarah and Fiona managed to link their right hands in a horrible travesty of a handshake. Sarah, disgusted as she was at the touch of her aunt's cold fingers, could feel them trembling. Fiona's eyes widened as she met Sarah's gaze; seemingly she was torn between her dislike of her niece and the demands of her fear. But when the Dark Lord stepped down from the dais and laid the tip of his wand across their joined hands, Fiona's face hardened: pride appeared to have won out over the impulse to beg this despised girl for mercy. Sarah was almost grateful for that. It made what she had to do easier.

"Well, Sarah, ask her what you will to assure the safety of your child." The mocking tone seemed to steal away the resolve she had just gained. She felt Severian shift slightly. _He will live in this house—there is nothing I can do to prevent that now. I have to do **something** to protect him._

"Will you, Fiona Darkglass Nott, promise to treat my son as if he were your own grandchild? As if he were truly Chester and Niniane's son?" Sarah asked shakily.

Fiona had no choice either. If she refused, the Dark Lord would punish her. _Crucio_, at the very least; but with Franklin in prison, the Dark Lord might even decide that she was too much trouble to bother with, a rebellious influence on her son. Facing the possibility of death whichever way she turned, Fiona could only say one thing.

"I will." Her hatred of Sarah had not lessened—that much was clear in her voice.

A red strand of fire shot from the Dark Lord's wand and encircled their hands.

"Will you protect him from all harm as carefully as you would protect your own life?" It was a much more brutal request, but Sarah feared now that Fiona would somehow try to twist her words.

Fiona hesitated, then took a shuddering breath before she whispered, "I will." When the second thread of fire wound itself around the first, Fiona gasped, her hand tightening as if in pain.

A Vow required three parts, according to every story Sarah had ever heard or read, and her thoughts fumbled about inside her head, seeking something else she could ask. The chief danger to Severian, it seemed, was Fiona's disgust at his father's low birth. She tried to frame a request that would address that problem. But it seemed impossible to control the woman's very thoughts and feelings. Or at least immoral: it would seem far too much like using the Imperius Curse to try. Realizing that the Dark Lord was waiting, that Fiona was waiting, as triumphant at any small difficulty she was giving Sarah as she was terrified at what the girl might ask next, Sarah began to speak.

"Will you...will you...behave...I mean...treat him, in every respect, as...as if you accept him as my father's heir, regardless of the...the circumstances of his birth?"

It was a rather miserable finish. But from the way Fiona's nose wrinkled up, she did not like being forced to promise it.

"I will," she ground out. A third flaming strand shot around the other two, binding their hands in a rope of fire. Fiona cried out this time. Her undisguised unwillingness to make these promises was causing her to suffer painful effects as the spell was completed. If she acted in any way contrary to the terms she had sworn, she would die. Sarah found her own eyes burning again with tears.

The fire flared in an expanding circle and dispersed. Their hands fell away from each other almost instantly.

"There," the Dark Lord said, pleased at what he had wrought. "You are content now, Sarah, are you not?"

"Yes, Master," she said, keeping her eyes down to avoid showing that she was anything but content.

"You are dismissed," he snapped at Fiona. "Get out of my sight!"

The mistress of the house stumbled to her feet and left the room, walking a bit too fast for the dignity she was trying to preserve. In turning to watch her go, Sarah realized that Chester was still in the room; he had been watching all this silently from the back. The look on his face was as fixedly cold as any expression Severus might have worn. Sarah wondered, with a pang, if her cousin would blame her for what had happened to his mother. If he would, in turn, take that out on Severian. She looked desperately again at Severus, and this time he seemed to perceive her distress. But she saw, too, that for the moment, there was nothing he could do.

"Now, Severus, you may take your...wife," the word sounded as if it tasted vaguely unpleasant, "home. You are to bring her child here to Notting Chase before the beginning of the term. And you will follow my instructions regarding...ah, this school year..._just_ as precisely, if you wish to remain in my favor." The red eyes raked over them, touching especially on Sarah's burgeoning abdomen, and although he had put his wand away again, his control over them was made perfectly clear.

"I shall do all in my power to serve you well, My Lord," Severus said.

Then, because she knew it would please their Dark master, and because at this moment, that seemed to her more important than anything else in the world, Sarah said, "Thank you, for your care of me, My Lord." Acting on the only impulse she knew she could trust in this situation—the impulse of Malcolm Darkglass's daughter—she reached up to take his hand.

It was not as cold as she expected. But there was a sensation, not on the smooth, paper-white surface, but just underneath, of the subtle, shifting scales of a snake. Gripping it harder to prevent herself from letting go, trying to use sheer pressure to dull her ability to feel that texture, she brought the hand to her lips. Hunched up in the back of her mind, she felt as if she might be sick.

"My dear Sarah," the Dark Lord murmured. He stroked her hair with his free hand. "I see that you, of all people, wish most to please me. I will forgive your error in yielding to Severus. You are, after all, very young."

"I shall look upon you as a father after this." The words spilled out in place of the screams that were clenched tight in her stomach.

"Yes. Yes, now," he raised her to her feet, "you must return with Severus." Whether he was weary of their presence, or was expecting other callers, or for some other unknown reason, he sounded slightly agitated. "You may go."

Chester saw them back into the parlor, his expression still frozen. Too dazed to know how to speak to him now, Sarah allowed Severus to lead her to the fireplace.

* * *

Back in the flat, Sarah muffled her pent-up shrieks of horror against his chest, as she tore madly at her own hair, trying to rid herself of the Dark Lord's touch. 

"Hush, Sarah!" Severus began stroking her hair himself. She began spitting ineffectually (her mouth had gone so dry again) through her pursed lips, trying to cleanse them. Her fingers twitched, and she pressed them against the sweet, rough wool of his robes.

She began to cry then. For her cousin, forced to become a Death Eater. For Severian, soon to be taken from her. Even for her aunt, bound perilously to her promises. Most of all, she wept for her own guilt at having taken part—for the first time, but undoubtedly not for the last—in the Dark Lord's cruel acts. She wept until she could scarcely breathe. She wept for a long time, until the palpable memory of that horrible touch had faded, and she felt only Severus's hand on her hair.

Some of the individual Silencing spells must have begun to fade, because Sarah heard voices in the next flat, muffled but understandable in the silent dark of the middle night, with none of the other usual sounds to obscure the words.

"She stop cryin' yet?" asked one voice.

"Yeah, think she has." It was difficult to tell if the speakers were men or women.

"Must not ha' been prepared for that, poor girl."

Then the Silencing spell on the outside wall failed, and the sounds of the partying still going on down on the street welled up to greet the newlyweds.

* * *

**A/N:** Please stay tuned... 


	55. Ch 54:I Don't Want Any Part In This Plot

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** What can I say? No matter what happens to Harry and company in the end, those of us who love the HP universe will go on writing about it.

**A/N:** I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long to appear. Although I'm not sure 'appear' is the right word—as if I could wave a wand and poof, there's the chapter. Sadly, I've had to slowly eke out this chapter in sentences and paragraphs written in stolen moments with the fag-ends of energy left from all my other obligations. And sadly, I can't promise that the chapters which follow this one will be finished any more quickly. Our change in address, while it has given me more joy than I've felt in a long time, has not given me as much free time as I'd hoped.

I want to let RavenMcCain, ElvenSailorGirl, Bellegeste, Ray Dragon, Samantha-Ives, blaise 311, AlanaRose12, lucidity, Aquiline and cecelle know that I really appreciate your reviews on the last chapter! And, as always, a special thanks to Lady Whitehart and cecelle for beta-ing.

Here it is. Make the enjoyment last as long as you can...

P.S. Lady Whitehart has written another "lost chapter," now available on Occlumency.

* * *

**Chapter 54: I Don't Want Any Part in This Plot**

"I think that, for the present, we need not worry about Bellatrix," Severus said, as they sat at the little kitchen table having tea and toast the next morning. "She was already out of favor, and after last night, it will take her a long time to regain it. You have replaced her, for the moment, as the Dark Lord's pet."

Sarah shuddered. Even in the daylight, the memory was almost unbearable. Upon reflection, there had been something more disturbing than she liked to think about in the Dark Lord's treatment of her, there at the end. Something subtly possessive in his touch that, despite his words about being a father to her, sent terrible tendrils of thought snaking around the edges of her mind. She looked anxiously at Severus. "He...he would never...?"

She could not even frame the words to express such impossible horrors. But it seemed that he understood her nonetheless.

"No...there are..." He took a deep breath. "There is some doubt whether he could, even if he would. To my knowledge, he never had a mistress. Bella... Well, she was much petted and coddled when we were younger. But somehow I think he would not have permitted her to marry if she...if she were his in that sense. Once, when someone hinted too far, he harangued us at length on the benefits of rigid self-control." His lips twisted into a sneer.

Sarah let out a breath that was half snort, half sigh.

"And now no one—except perhaps Wormtail—knows whether his renewed body is...whole. I think," Severus went on, when he saw her shudder at the thought, "you need not fear that he will require more of you than to submit to being stroked like an animal."

"That is quite awful enough!" Sarah covered her face with her hands.

"You invited it!" he said sternly. "That was well done, regardless of how much the results trouble you. He will cater to your wishes now, as long as they do not conflict with his own."

She lowered her hands and asked fiercely, "Will he let our baby stay here in Knockturn?"

"For heaven's sake, Sarah!" Severus brought a hand down hard on the table. "Would you rather our son grew up in this...this _squalor_, as I did, instead of the luxury he deserves? I do not like it any better than you do that the Dark Lord now knows about the baby. That he is able to use him to manipulate us. But with Fiona prevented—"

"What about Chester? Did you see the look on his face?"

"He looked exactly as I would have, had I just watched the Dark Lord tormenting someone I cared for! Do you think that he would be such a fool as to show anything he truly felt at that moment?"

"He must blame me..." Her eyes, so much abused recently, filled with tears again.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was clear to me that his enthusiasm for the Dark Lord's cause is motivated more by fear than anything else. If the Dark Lord tells him to protect the child, he will do so. Particularly if he thinks there is any risk of his mother's death."

"I'm afraid she will do something to try to get around the Vow." Sarah pressed a hand to her burgeoning abdomen. "If only out of spite."

"There is nothing we can do about that now. Stop tormenting yourself with such thoughts, Sarah!"

"I..." _I can't help it_—it was on the tip of her tongue. But she knew what he would say. And she knew he was right. If she could not control her impulses, sooner or later, in this perilous double-life they led, they would kill her. "I just wish there was something we could do," she finished weakly.

"We can do everything that is necessary," Severus answered stonily. "If you should develop a Gryffindor impulse to do something foolish and desperate, remember that a momentary victory means nothing if it destroys everything else we want to achieve."

Sarah stared at the table, frowning. "What about Professor Dumbledore?" she asked. Last night, with the fireworks still going off as cover, Severus had sent one of those ghost phoenix messages to the headmaster. But there had, as yet, been no reply. "We can't possibly help Draco _kill_ him."

She was afraid that Severus would tell her that, yes, they could do exactly that. But instead he frowned deeply. "A solution will present itself," he said. But his usual arrogant confidence was gone.

They sat in silence for a time. Then, woodenly, Sarah began to clear away the dishes, setting them to wash in the sink with a charm she had finally, with Cornelia's instruction, mastered. Severus began flipping through the pages of Rastaban Black's _Poisons for Everyday Use_, and Sarah's heart sank; she had no inclination to study today, let alone such grim stuff. Confident that the washing charm would hold without her supervision, she wandered to the window.

The street was littered with evidence of last night's reveling: broken bottles, firework casings, even some human debris—wizards who had not managed to get back to their homes before collapsing in a drunken stupor. At least Sarah hoped that was the reason they were not awake yet at this late morning hour. Passersby were stepping over and around them with no apparent alarm, but here in Knockturn, that might not necessarily mean they were still alive. A familiar female figure caught her attention when the woman began crossing the street at a diagonal, heading for their own building.

"Aunt Miriam!" Sarah called, waving.

Miriam waved back. She was carrying a basket on her other arm. _Something to eat?_

"She's coming up," Sarah warned Severus. He shrugged in response, his eyes still on the book. But when Miriam knocked, he had his wand out, ready to lift the wards for her.

"Good morning!" Miriam said brightly. "I see that I waited long enough." She had a twinkle in her eye.

"Good morning," Sarah said, too weary to blush properly. She half-wanted to tell Miriam everything that had happened last night. But it was not safe. Even if it were, it would be unkind to burden the woman with the horrors involved in serving the Dark Lord.

"I thought," Miriam said, unlatching the lid of the basket, "that now you've established a household, as it were, you might be ready for this."

A flash of black and white slipped out of the basket and landed with a plop on the floor. The small, lanky, half-grown feline gave an offended meow, then looked around suspiciously.

"Carabas!" Sarah had caught sight of her promised kitten on her few visits to the Snapes', but he had been a bit standoffish. Living with the Grimms, as she'd been, there had been no question of taking him yet.

"I've put a Come Home Charm on him," Miriam said. "But you may want to keep him in and feed him well for the first few days."

"Feed him?" Severus was glaring down at the little interloper. Carabas looked up, the end of his tail twitching. "You didn't tell me there would be yet another mouth to feed."

"I never imagined you'd mind me having a cat," Sarah said defensively.

"He looks like that evil animal of yours that used to bite me." Severus glared at Miriam now.

Miriam chuckled. "Only when you refused to pet him."

Sarah tried to bend down to scoop up her cat, but Carabas would have nothing of it, and she was too ungainly now to chase him. He darted under an empty chair and crouched there, watching the humans with a mixture of anxiety and disdain.

"He'll come out when he's ready," Miriam said. "Is there anything you need?"

_A Fidelius Charm? Passage to America?_ "No, we're fine," Sarah said. "Oh, I need to give Flora's dress robes back." She stepped toward the bedroom, but Miriam stopped her.

"She said you'd be as well to keep them for the while. Another month, more or less—"

A loud squawk interrupted her, and a furious fluttering of wings. Outside the open window, a largish owl with a letter tied to its leg had run into the wards. Severus lifted them quickly, and the bird tumbled in, noisily making its displeasure known. Under the chair, Carabas hissed.

"My goodness!" Miriam exclaimed, as the bird landed on the back of the chair. The kitten scurried into the bedroom.

Sarah, suddenly suspecting what was in the official-looking envelope, moved forward gingerly as the owl settled itself. Although it was still clearly miffed, it held out its leg.

"N.E.W.T. results," Severus said. "Go on and open it."

It seemed silly to be nervous. For good or ill, she was done with school, and nothing in that envelope would be unexpected enough to make the slightest difference to her future. But Sarah still felt an anxious fluttering in her stomach that had nothing to do with the movements of her child. She took it in her hands and tore it open carefully.

_Sarah Anne Darkglass has achieved:  
Astronomy – A  
Herbology – E_  
_Potions – O (see below)_

_Note: In consideration of unusually outstanding performance, Miss Darkglass has been awarded a Special Commendation in Potions. A certificate will follow under separate cover._

A trembly laugh bubbled up in her. Severus sprang up and snatched the paper from her hands. In a moment, a strangled guffaw broke from his lips.

"So, you did well, then?" Miriam said.

"Very well indeed," Severus said. He passed the results to his aunt.

Miriam's lips curved quietly at their corners as she studied the paper. "I see you have a right to be proud. Special commendations are very rare." She shot a look at Severus that was half-pleased, half-amused.

"Did you...?" Sarah was almost afraid to ask, for fear the answer would upset him. It occurred to her for the first time that he would not like having one of his students surpass him.

"Not in Potions," he answered curtly. He took the letter back and folded it up.

"His," Miriam said, "was in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

* * *

Miriam had not been gone very long—just long enough for Severus to discover that Carabas had made a mess in the bedroom corner—when a sudden _pop_ rattled the front door, followed immediately by a sharp knock. 

Their eyes met for a moment in anxious, questioning fear. Then Severus's expression hardened.

"Who is it?"

A familiar voice answered, "Your employer."

Severus brought down the wards and opened the door with a jerk. Standing on the threshold was a bemused old wizard wrapped in a black traveling cloak.

"Come in, quickly!" Severus hissed. He wasted no time in closing the door and then raising ward after ward, making the flat as impregnable as it had been last night.

"What's the matter?" Sarah whispered apprehensively, as soon as it seemed safe to do so. "Why did you come here?" As accustomed as she herself had become to Knockturn Alley, she was conscious of the incongruity—if not outright impropriety—of the Hogwarts Headmaster visiting this place. Her heart sank: _what must he think of this tiny, decrepit flat?_

"It was not wise of you to come here," Severus said tautly, as he drew up a chair to offer to Professor Dumbledore.

"Perhaps not," the old man conceded. He sank down on the chair with obvious relief, seemingly oblivious to its hard seat and back. "But I wished to speak to both of you together, and at present it seemed easier for me to come to you than the reverse." His eyes examined Sarah's awkward figure over the top of his half-moon spectacles for a moment. Then he turned to Severus.

"I received your message. You have done as well as I could have hoped for, in such a tight spot."

"Did Severus tell you everything?" Sarah asked, shocked that he could be so sanguine. She did not know how the ghost phoenix messages worked; a good opportunity to ask had never arisen. "Did he tell you that we're supposed to _kill_ you?"

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said quietly. "I ought to have expected as much."

"But—!"

Dumbledore raised his hand to stop her. Her subsequent stunned silence was as much a result of the appearance of that hand as the gesture itself: the skin was blackened, the flesh shriveled around the bones; it was a wonder he could use the hand at all. If this was the injury he had sustained... Her eyes flicked to Severus, who was frowning deeply.

"At my age, Sarah," the headmaster said, "death has been a traveling companion for so long, there is nothing shocking in the idea of taking his path instead of my own. And like all the members of the Order, I am quite willing to lay down my life for the greater good."

"No good can come from leaving that witless boy without your guidance!" Severus snapped. "Nor do I wish to have any part in being the instrument of your death!"

"Nor I!" Sarah interjected.

"Nor do I wish it." Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, his blue eyes studying them keenly, without even a hint of sparkle. "But if that is what is required to defeat Lord Voldemort, can any of us refuse?"

"It's Draco Malfoy who's supposed to do it," Sarah said. "Can't we try to have him caught attempting it? We can find some other excuse for our own failure." She looked to Severus for backup.

"The boy would be safer inside Azkaban than he is now," Severus pointed out.

"I agree that it would be best to prevent him from becoming a murderer. But it is considerably more difficult to find evidence of a _planned_ murder than one that has already been committed. And without evidence, it is impossible even to accuse Draco. Nor can we be certain that he even intends to try."

"But the Dark Lord will kill him if he doesn't," Sarah protested.

"It may be that he will discover that he would find that preferable. What do you think, Severus? You have known the boy all his life."

The younger man grimaced. "Draco has always been pampered and spoiled, particularly by his mother. Casual cruelty comes easily to him. But murder..." He shook his head. "I am not certain he could look a man in the face and kill him—I think he lacks the keen, cold edge necessary for it. But then, he is hardly likely to _confront_ you, is he?" Severus finished with a sneer.

"We must do our best to prevent him from carrying out his orders," Dumbledore said. "But you have already warned me once, I think, that Draco no longer trusts you."

"I will simply have to try harder, won't I?" Severus said acerbically.

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. "But you will not forget, I am sure, that he cannot be given any reason to suspect that your efforts are meant to protect me. And you realize, of course, that if we prevent Draco from carrying out his orders, you will be placed in the difficult position of having to fulfill yours."

"We simply _won't_," Sarah averred.

"Ah, dear girl, can you afford that? Severus told me," he nodded toward his Potions master, "that Lord Voldemort now knows of your child's existence. I assume he has taken—or will take—steps to ensure that you will comply with his commands."

"Chester Nott is to be the boy's guardian," Severus conceded.

"Chester?" Dumbledore said thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "Yes, I remember him. The choice might have been worse."

Sarah bit her tongue. It would do no good to complain to the headmaster of her aunt's behavior.

She glanced away and saw Carabas slip out of the bedroom, black tail held high and bushy in defiance of any accusation. Without warning, the lanky kitten sidled up to Severus, entwining himself around the man's legs. The action drew both men's attention immediately; Severus jolted as abruptly as if a basilisk had chosen that moment to befriend him.

"Have you finally chosen a familiar, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, in good-natured amusement. "You never had one, that I can recall."

"The beast is Sarah's," Severus answered tightly, pushing the small cat away with a foot that seemed barely restrained from kicking out. Determinedly ignoring the cat, he attempted to bring the conversation back to business. "Headmaster, I trust that you have some idea how you intend to deal with this situation."

The headmaster bent to give Carabas a reassuring pat. The kitten, apparently mollified, sauntered off. Dumbledore sat up, releasing a slow and quiet sigh. "I fear that only time will unravel much of what now seems hopelessly tangled," he said. "For the present, we can only attempt to prevent my murder. However, it seems all the more likely to me that you will find it necessary to leave Hogwarts at the end of this school year. In fact," he continued, overriding the startled words that seemed about to spring from the other man's lips, "that is the main reason I wished to speak with the two of you together. Horace Slughorn has just agreed to return to the post of Potions master. You may now teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, as you have always wished."

Severus stared at the headmaster in blank astonishment. Finally he found his voice, "So, it has come to that."

"I did warn you of the possibility," Dumbledore pointed out.

"What about my apprenticeship?" Sarah asked, almost equally stunned. Despite the logic of Dumbledore's suggestion, she had supposed—for what reasons she did not know; _pure foolishness?_—that nothing would change at Hogwarts.

"Horace has agreed to supervise your apprenticeship. He was quite torn over it, however—I think it almost prevented him from agreeing to take the post. Even when I reminded him that apprentices at Hogwarts are to remain unseen and unheard."

"Why...?" Sarah began, confused.

To her surprise, it was Severus who answered. "Professor Slughorn has always enjoyed cultivating, shall we say, the _best_ contacts. I assume," he looked to Dumbledore, "he could not decide if her family name was worth the problems of associating with the daughter of a known Death Eater?"

"I fear so," Dumbledore confessed. "Horace seems quite concerned about being drawn unwillingly into Lord Voldemort's service. You will have to be very careful, Sarah, to do nothing to suggest that you have connections in that direction."

"More pretences," Sarah sighed.

"When you choose to build your life upon pretences," the headmaster said, fixing her with an unusually stern eye, "it inevitably becomes necessary to create more and more of them. I do hope," he added, more gently, "that someday those pretences can be abandoned. But for now, regrettably, you cannot avoid the consequences of the choices you have made. You can only attempt to make the best of them." His gaze strayed to Severus, whose grim expression suggested to Sarah that the old man had once told him much the same thing.

"I will be careful," Sarah said.

"I am sure you will. I don't doubt," Dumbledore said, turning to Severus, "that Horace will contact you shortly. He is rather unprepared for the coming term. Try to humor him, regardless of how painful it may be. It is becoming difficult to find anyone who is willing to teach for me at all." He frowned ruefully.

"Very well," Severus said, and it looked as if it cost him something to say it.

"Please, continue to trust me, Severus." The headmaster's expression was as grave as Sarah had ever seen it, even with all her grim private experience. "I know that may be more difficult now than it has been for many years. But please, my boy, do not let your trust in me fall short of my trust in you."

A startled look flashed through the new Defense master's hard black eyes, turning him, for just a moment, into the youth he was beside the headmaster's venerable years. Then his face hardened to its usual, impenetrable mask. "I will not fail you now."

Dumbledore nodded silently, the twinkle returning to his eyes, despite the continued seriousness of his expression.

"If you are finished dispensing your orders, you had better leave," Severus said bluntly. "The longer you remain here, the greater the danger will become of discovery."

"I quite understand. It would be best if I could Apparate from inside your flat, I think, if you are willing to risk the lifting of the anti-Apparition wards?"

With a flick of his wand, Severus let his actions answer the question. The headmaster hesitated only long enough to lift his hat briefly to Sarah, then he vanished with a loud pop.

Sarah looked to Severus, a sudden wave of desperation breaking over her. "What's going to happen? He's not going to find a way, is he?"

"How am I to know?" Severus snapped in return. He brushed a hand across his face. "I only know that time appears to be growing short, for all of us."

Sarah stood, stricken, her hand going instinctively to the roundness of her stomach. She did not know what to say, only that it seemed that she must say _something_, or the world would come apart at the seams.

"Stop thinking about it, Sarah!" The order was sharp. "Concern yourself with the child. Concern yourself with your studies. Leave the rest to me."

At another time, not so long ago, she would have bristled at his imperious tone. Would have rebelled at his notions of her inferior feminine place. Would have refused to be treated like the child bride she had become.

Now she wished that all of her future decisions could be that easy.

**

* * *

A/N:** You may not have noticed, and it's hard to explain within the text, since Sarah's experience of the Patronus Charm is limited entirely to what she, herself, has seen, but you might consider what it means that Sarah thinks these messages are sent by ghost phoenix. It's the solution to the question of Snape's Patronus that I like best. :) 


	56. Ch 55: Did You Think That I Had Left You

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** In the months that I've been away, I haven't gotten any notices that I now own Harry Potter. It's still J. K. Rowling's.

**A/N:** First off, I want to apologize for making my loyal readers wait so long for the story to go on. Real Life Happens, alas. But in my absence, I've been writing slowly but steadily, and I can now tell you the good news: I've finished the story! Once you begin reading, you'll see why I didn't want to interrupt the action of these last chapters with long, long breaks.

In case you've forgotten what's been happening, I'll give a quick story summary. (Although you could always go back and re-read, hint, hint.)

Severus and Sarah went to live in Knockturn Alley for the summer, where we learned that their old enemy, Isaac Connor, was looking for revenge. After another run-in with Bellatrix Lestrange, Severus decided it would be safest if he "officially" married Sarah (who was pretending to be a relative of Miriam's). This happened none too soon, because Voldemort discovered Sarah's pregnancy when they came before him to be told about Draco's task. Voldemort ordered that the baby be given to Sarah's cousin Chester Nott and his wife Niniane for fostering. Upon learning that Sarah feared what Fiona might do to a child of Severus's, Voldemort forced a resentful Fiona to make an Unbreakable Vow to satisfy Sarah's anxieties. Back in Knockturn Alley, Dumbledore visited the flat to learn about Voldemort's latest plan and to inform Severus that he was being promoted to Dark Arts professor and that Slughorn would be teaching Potions.

The rest of the story will be posted (or uploaded, as the case may be) on a regular basis during the Christmas break. I hope you enjoy!

**

* * *

Chapter 55: Did You Think That I Had Left You For Good?**

As Professor Dumbledore had predicted, an owl arrived two days later. As Severus read the letter it bore, his face grew redder and redder, until he finally threw the parchment down on the table and began pacing the room.

"How dare he even ask..." he raged. "He has no business..." He lapsed into furious speechlessness.

"What does he want?" Sarah asked. She reached gingerly for the letter, fearful that Severus would snatch it out of her hand. But for once he ignored her prying into his business, as he continued to pace, his whole frame shaking with the anger he was trying to control.

_My dear Severus_, the letter began.

_I imagine, by now, Albus has told you that I am returning to Hogwarts. Congratulations, by the way, on the Defense job. Never understood why he hasn't given you the post before. Of course, the things that have happened to other teachers... But then, you're too sharp to fall prey to that sort of thing, aren't you, my boy?_

_As my return to Hogwarts has come as a bit of a surprise, I find myself woefully lacking the time necessary to prepare my usual demonstrations for the first day of class. I hope I am right in guessing that you'd already made your own preparations for the year. If not, I shall have to go to the trouble of contacting Corvin Croaker about a Time-Turner. But eating up precious months that way is dreadfully hard on a poor old buffer like me._

_I've been told that you do not teach the N.E.W.T. levels just as I did. Perfectly understandable, under the circumstances. But I still believe all the potions I introduce are vitally important for the students to become familiar with. As difficult as it may be to put certain incidents in the past behind us, could I possibly rely on you to complete the preparations for me?_

_Your old friend,_

_Horace Slughorn_

"What does he mean?" Sarah looked up from the letter, puzzled. She could see nothing, offhand, to provoke such a violent response, although there were hints that Professor Slughorn had thought it might. _Putting certain incidents behind them? _Her brow furrowed.

"He expects me to help him put Amortentia in reach of _bloody_ Potter's _bloody_ offspring!" Severus spat out.

She remembered now. Slughorn had taught that potion. Severus didn't. She glanced at the letter again.

"You mean he introduces it on the first day of the N.E.W.T. class?" Sarah was stunned. How could the man be so foolish as to tempt hormone-ridden young men and women with such a potion, and at the same time give them two years to perfect it?

"He likes to impress his students with a display of powerful potions." Severus turned around, his face less red than it had been. But his voice was still taut with fury. "As if providing temptations will spur them to do better work!"

"What else does he show them?" It was preferable to have Severus talking, if he would, no matter what he might say, than burning out his anger in other ways.

"Polyjuice Potion, of course. Who would not want to be someone else for a time?" Severus grimaced. "Veritaserum, despite the fact that its use is regulated by the Ministry."

"Because everyone would like to be sure they're not being lied to," Sarah murmured. Severus looked hard at her, and she blinked. "I didn't mean—"

"You are, of course, correct," he growled. "And yet how dangerous the truth can be! Why do you suppose Hogwarts does not offer tutoring in Occlumency and Legilimency to any student who wishes it?"

"It's irresponsible to put such things in front of everyone," Sarah protested. "You never suggested to us that potions would give us power..."

Severus drew himself up to his full, stiff height, as if slightly offended. Suddenly she remembered the speech he had given them on their very first day of Potions. And yet, after that one tantalizing hint about fame and glory, he had always taught Potions as if they were chiefly a matter of academic interest. Perhaps he had expected those who truly desired power—like his Slytherins—to keep those possibilities in mind on their own.

"It isn't necessary to suggest it," Severus sneered, "if you introduce it with the right...flair." It was hard to say if he was referring to himself or to Slughorn.

"So, he expects you to make those potions for him to show off? Even if _you_ have to use a Time-Turner to do it?"

"I won't need a Time-Turner." His face was fading back to a sallow pallor. "I already have the others in preparation."

"You're just going to tell him no, about the Amortentia, aren't you?" It felt curious to be bristling at someone in Severus's defense while he was actually present to see it.

"As if I could!" Severus began pacing again. "As if anyone could deny Horace Slughorn! A fat spider in a wide web, and he has only to touch the threads to ensure that certain people rise or fall in the world." He gritted his teeth. "You'll discover, perhaps, what it's like to have too much talent for him to ignore but too little to offer up to his vanity to gain his sponsorship. And here he is again, asking for a gift. One he knows I can afford."

"Not if it upsets you this much."

"No." Severus shook his head. "The headmaster requested I humor him." His face hardened into displeased and determined lines. "I have no doubt Albus Dumbledore knew exactly what his new Potions master would require."

Sarah frowned, wishing she could do something to prevent him being pressured into brewing the very potion that had made so much of his life a living hell. "I could make—"

"No!" Severus snapped. "I will not permit you to handle the ingredients. In any event, the potions must be made at Hogwarts."

"So, you'll be away again." Sarah sighed, sinking down awkwardly onto her chair.

"Not for long. Amortentia requires more skill than time. I've already begun new batches of Veritaserum and Polyjuice." Neither lasted very long on a shelf. "And the other potion he wants is the Felix Felicis."

"_The Felix Felicis?_" Sarah's eyes widened. Her N.E.W.T. class learned about the luck potion—as part of a wider study of contraband potions—during their seventh year, with emphasis solely on identifying its effects. They had never been permitted to try making it. She knew that Severus had started a new batch in a corner of his lab, months and months ago, although it had not been ready in time to save her from the Dark Lord. Might not be ready even yet. "He can't possibly mean for them to learn to make it. It's illegal, for one thing. And it's almost as difficult to get right as the Wolfsbane!" Severus had not permitted her to even come near it.

"Yes, and quite beyond Slughorn. The sample he exhibited to the class in my year was off—not enough for a careless eye to catch, but if anyone had drunk it..."

"How horrible! What if someone had tried to sneak in before he got rid of it?"

"I did. How do you suppose I got close enough to it to realize he'd botched it?"

"You were trying to steal it?" Sarah wasn't sure whether to be horrified or impressed.

"I could have benefited from a little luck that year." Severus frowned. "But in fact, I wanted something for comparison when I tried making my own. I was furious when I realized that we'd been played for fools." His brow furrowed deeply.

"Did _he_ know it was wrong?"

"Oh, yes. Why do you suppose he's so anxious for _me_ to make all his preparations for him? He could obtain a Time-Turner easily enough—far more easily than I—and he hardly need live out the full preparation time. A few well-timed visits to a protected laboratory to make the necessary additions would suffice. But if _I_ make the Felix Felicis for him...well, that would give him something worth having."

"Would he use it _himself?_" One of the reasons the luck potion was classified as contraband—apart from the obvious unfair advantages it gave the user—was that it had dangerous (as well as rather obvious) side-effects, if taken more than once every six months or so. And frequent or prolonged use was fatal. Even if the potion had been ready in time for her first audience with the Dark Lord, she would not have been able to take it again for the second, when she had truly needed it most.

"Wouldn't anyone be tempted, if they feared the Dark Lord was seeking them?" Severus fixed her with a bitter gaze. "But more likely he intends to give it away...in exchange for certain favors, no doubt."

"You won't give him _all_ of it, will you?"

His expression soured further. "One unfortunate problem in bottling Felix Felicis is that once the surface of the finished potion is disturbed, only the first ladleful is active. The rest remains a perfect and beautiful sample for perhaps three hours. But entirely useless."

Sarah sighed. "All that effort for nothing."

"Unless you, as his apprentice, can steal a dose before he does. Which is unlikely, since he will probably hover over it like a dragon guarding an egg. In any event, it does us no good now," he finished crossly.

_As his apprentice_... No, Severus was right; it seemed unlikely he would trust her that much. The daughter of a known Death Eater. She would be lucky if he let her restock the store cupboard.

* * *

This grim assessment was only confirmed when Sarah's letter from Slughorn arrived the following day. Perhaps the owl had gotten lost, or perhaps it had just taken the man that much longer to decide what to say to his unwished-for apprentice. 

_Dear Miss Darkglass,_

_Ordinarily, I'd meet with a new apprentice the week before start of term. But it is quite necessary, this year, for me to travel to school on the Hogwarts Express. I assure you we'll meet at the first available opportunity after I arrive to set up your duties and a study schedule. Besides, I imagine that Professor Snape has given you a lot of information in advance._

_Professor Slughorn_

And that was all. Sarah had received advertising testimonials that were more personal.

"It may be just as well," Severus said, after reading it, although disgust was evident on his face. "The less he has to do with you, the less likely it is he will discover any of our secrets. And he must not discover them." He fixed Sarah with a sharp look, as if he feared, even after all past evidence to the contrary, that she would slip up. "No doubt he will be more than willing to cede additional aspects of your training back to me as the year progresses, particularly since it was I who originally agreed to your apprenticeship. But we must proceed with more caution than ever. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do!" Sarah snapped. As if Slughorn's offensively evasive letter weren't bad enough, Severus just _had_ to chide her about caution again! "Stop treating me like a child!"

"Then stop behaving like one," he retorted sullenly. Which was profoundly unjust, since his attitude had begun before her outburst.

"If you didn't want to be married to a child, you shouldn't have seduced one!" The words leapt unchecked from an irrational swirl of thoughts spinning around in her head. She was nearly as shocked by them as he was.

"You seemed little enough of a child then!" he sneered back. "I never imagined you would turn out as soft and weak as any other high-born brood-bitch."

The unexpectedly harsh jab brought tears bursting from her eyes. Tears that would only confirm what he had just said. She tried to channel her pain into rage.

"_Soft?! Weak?!_" she sputtered. "I have withstood more suffering than—"

"Than I?" He was nose to nose with her, his dark eyes glittering. "Do you dare to say you have suffered more than—"

"No!" she shouted. No, she shook her head dazedly; she had not meant to argue with him. Her parents had been like this. She had never, never wanted that. "I didn't mean it! I didn't mean any of it!"

She fled to the bedroom, where she curled up on the bed, sobbing in frustration at this little being who had taken her over—both body and mind it seemed. She had never imagined that carrying a child would do such irresistible things to her emotions. After what seemed a long time, Severus came in and lay silently and rigidly beside her. Fearing his rejection, but too unhappy to do anything else, she turned to him. To her surprise, he took her in his arms and cradled her close.

"Miriam warned me," Severus murmured ruefully. "I can't tolerate this, Sarah. I can't."

"Do you think it's easy for _me?_" she whispered.

"No more children," he whispered back. "Once of this is enough."

At the moment, she was more than inclined to agree with him.

* * *

Although their argument had left a slightly chill distance between them, Severus delayed his journey to Hogwarts for another week, hovering, it seemed, between his anxiety about leaving Sarah alone and the knowledge that the longer he delayed, the more likely it was the baby would be born in his absence. At last, after drilling Sarah repeatedly in the necessary precautions to secure the flat, he Apparated away, promising to return in less than four days. Sarah was almost relieved to see him go. 

As soon as he was gone, she rebelliously put away her Dark Potions texts and pulled out the battered copies of _Birthing for the Modern Witch_ and _What to Expect When You're Expecting a Baby Witch or Wizard _that Miriam had lent to her. They did not improve her temper, since the very fact she was reading them in preference to her Potions books seemed to confirm that she had become nothing more than a brainless broodmare. But she felt desperate to know as much as she could about what was happening to her. What _would_ happen...or _could_.

In spite of Miriam's reassurances, Sarah was frightened. Things could go wrong at a birth, even with magic. Magic itself could prove hazardous to a young and fragile life, when it was in the process of separating from the protective shelter of its mother's body. She needed to be as prepared for that as she had been for facing the Dark Lord. She needed to read these books _now_, while Severus was gone. She could not, had not been able, to bear doing so under his critical eye.

But the flat seemed horribly empty without him. She missed him most at night, although she wasn't sure why. He had become loath to make love to her since their most recent wedding night, out of what appeared to be an unreasonable conviction that it would endanger her or the baby.

No, it was much easier to be annoyed with him when he was away. To be glad that she was free to steal his pillow to prop her legs into a marginally more comfortable position. To have long, uninterrupted hours to pay attention to nothing but the movements inside her womb.

Still, she was unaccountably anxious for his return. The subtle, though increasingly frequent, tightenings of her belly were only preparatory motions, according to Miriam, but even a midwife could not be certain when the baby would be born. Sarah wanted Severus _here_ when it happened. Not, she thought wryly, that he was likely to want to be directly involved in something so thoroughly outside his experience and control.

Carabas, at least, was company for her (speaking of something else outside Severus' control). The little cat had learned to behave himself, but not before infuriating Severus with several more "accidents." The threats her husband had made toward the animal were upsetting, even though Sarah was not sure whether he would really carry them out. Nor was she sure whether she cared about that possibility more for the cat's sake or for Severus's. The little tom was amusing and occasionally affectionate, but he was not remotely as ingratiating as her previous familiar. When he curled up on the end of the bed, Sarah felt contented with his presence. Otherwise, he was just a cat. It frustrated her.

Everything did. She felt like a wing-clipped dragon—huge, hot, immobile and very, very grumpy. She sat most of the time in front of an enchanted fan, reading and trying to work out snags in knitting spells she had not practiced in years. It was vaguely disgusting that watching baby booties grow under the needles was nearly as satisfying as making Wolfsbane.

* * *

When, on the third day, Sarah heard the crack of Apparition outside the door, she hoisted herself rapidly to her feet. "Just a moment!" she called. The wards Severus had taught her could only be lifted by the caster. Sarah had privately worried that she might somehow find herself helplessly in labor, with Miriam locked outside, but she had followed his instructions to the letter. She drew her wand as she advanced toward the door; he would be annoyed if she made him wait in the corridor. 

It was not until she had lifted the wards and was pulling the door open that it occurred to her that Severus had not spoken to her in return.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Sarah's wand flew from her fingers, and she staggered backward, staring aghast at the fierce face of the man who stood in the doorway.

"_Silencio!_" he hissed, before she could open her mouth, so that her scream, painful as it was in her throat, was as silent as death. Then he was inside, slamming the door, raising wards of his own.

A lean and hungry frame, slighter than Severus. Coarse, colorless hair. Eyes like slices of olives. A narrow face with a distinctive scar twisting the edge of his lower lip...a lip that was narrowed in a vicious half-smirk of triumph. She had not seen the man in nine long months, except briefly and from a distance, but she recognized him at once.

She had let in Isaac Connor.

**

* * *

A/N:** I would like to point out now that I could not have finished this story without the help of my faithful betas, cecelle and Lady Whitehart. In fact, Lady Whitehart has (virtually) held my hand (via ICQ) and talked me through the process of writing these chapters. She deserves a gold star. She also deserves to have her stories read! So...go and read them! 


	57. Ch 56: Enter At Last

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Ditto. Ditto. Ditto.

**A/N:** I would like to especially thank everyone who has come back to reading after so many months. And naturally, thanks to my wonderful betas, cecelle and Lady Whitehart.

This is a rather short chapter. But you'll probably be glad of that.

**

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Chapter 56: Enter At Last**

"Well, ain't this interesting!" Connor said, as he moved into the room, his wand trained unwaveringly on Sarah. "The little bint from the graveyard."

He did remember her, then. She had been hoping he might not.

"Explains a lot, don't it? Had to save his little _crumpet_." His eyes raked her, both violating her and despising her as he took in her condition. "You been his tart long enough. Got better marks for it?" Her silent disgust only made him snort, and his smirk twisted further. "Wonder what the old man up at Hogwarts'll think of that?"

Sarah felt a cold chill spread through her as she realized what he was saying. It was not a fear that he would tell Dumbledore—the headmaster already knew. No, it was the nearly certain dread that Connor would not even bother with Dumbledore. The _Daily Prophet_ would gorge itself on a story like that, and the headmaster would find out about his former Potion master's misdeeds on the front page.

The chill hardened into an icy stone in her chest. There was no choice now—one way or another, she would have to kill Connor. Before he could tell what he knew. _Dear God, has it come to this? To commit murder to protect a reputation?_ Sarah's guts twisted; she was almost physically sick with the thought.

"Don't like that notion, eh?" Connor said.

_What do you want?_ Sarah mouthed.

"You know better than to call out now? You know I'd make you regret it." He gestured threateningly with his wand, and she nodded rapidly. With another smirk, he lifted the silencing spell.

"What do you want, Connor?" she asked fiercely. She had hoped that her use of his name would unnerve him a little, and she was rewarded when he twitched slightly.  
"Just a little business with your _husband_." He sneered when he saw Sarah twitch in turn. "Oh, yes, I heard about that. Severus Snape married to a girl by the name of Sarah. Claims she's from Bristol, I hear, not Biggleton.

"How could you know...?" Sarah gasped. He should not know her village. He should not know anything about her, beyond the gossip of Knockturn. An unknown source at Hogwarts? But, no, if he had not connected the Potion master's lover with the Gryffindor student in Hogmeade graveyard until this moment...who could have told him such details about the true background of Snape's Sarah? _The Notts? But why would they..._

Like a pebble starting a rockslide, her thoughts began tumbling.

According to the Ministry, none of the Notts had murdered her aunt. But if this man was connected with her uncle (how and why, she could only guess), then there could only be one possible reason for him to know the name of the village Sarah had been living in with her aunt.

_You will do **nothing** in regard to Connor_, Severus had told her. He had told her that, and very little else. As if, if she knew more, she might have had reason to seek her own revenge on the man.

"You killed my aunt!" Sarah accused, desperate for her wand, which Connor had tucked away in his robes. Anger flared in her, washing her with heat, as if she were standing in a flame.

"So, Snape _didn't_ tell you," Connor sneered. He clicked his tongue chidingly, but then his voice took on a colder note. "I was to be paid good money for it, too, 'til that berk Nott got hisself locked up in Azkaban. But fine Lady Nott welched on me. Says the woman's niece and heir is Snape's lover, and I should take payment out of Snape's hide."

"How much?" Sarah gritted her teeth against the tears streaming unbidden down her cheeks. But if the money really was all he wanted, he might go away. Without hurting her. Or the baby. Or Severus.

"Hah! You'd pay me, would you? Blood money on your own aunt?" He began circling her again, tensely.

Sarah shook, forcing herself to say nothing. Forcing her stomach to remain at the bottom of her throat.

Suddenly Connor snarled, "You think you could _pay_ me for five months in Azkaban?" He spat on the floor. "I'll see Snape suffer afore I'm satisfied."

"If you hurt him, I won't give you so much as a Sickle!"

"You think I give a fig for your money, now, little nob? And who said I was going to hurt him _personally?_"

"He'll hurt _you_," Sarah averred. Her mind was racing over all the means that Connor now had to make Severus suffer: he could destroy his career with a few words in the ear of a reporter, reveal him as a Death Eater. Or—and the thought made her cold all over again—hurt his wife. Or his child.

"Got the better of him at the moment, ain't I?" Connor grinned savagely, as if he had read her thoughts.

"He'll be back before long," Sarah said warningly, wiping at the drying tear tracks on her cheeks. If only Severus _would_ come back, now, before Connor did anything more than talk. She had been expecting him today, but it might be as late as tomorrow before he came home. What would Connor have done to her by then? A surge of desperation swept over her as she realized there was nothing she could do, nothing she could promise this man, nothing she could tell him that would make him stop, if he began to torture her...

"Sit down," Connor ordered. "Now!" He pointed to the chair Severus always sat in.

Trembling, Sarah made her way to it slowly and sank down. With a word and a flick of his wand, Connor sent cords snaking round her, binding her fast. It was hard to breathe, but it was difficult to tell if the problem was the cords, or the terror and anger that she was wavering between from moment to moment.

Once she was bound, Connor relaxed a trifle. He went through the cupboards, helping himself to bread and cheese. Then he began dumping things out—flour, sugar, potion ingredients.

"Stop it!" Sarah said.

Connor sneered at her as he poured a jar of Jabizri beetles on the floor and crushed them under his heel.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, none of the resulting combinations were volatile, but the expense of replacing some of those ingredients made Sarah wince every time he grabbed another jar. Perhaps the man was merely enjoying the destruction of his enemy's property, but it would have been difficult to find a better immediate means of punishing Severus for his alleged offenses.

Sarah saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Carabas was slinking out of the bedroom to investigate. She willed him to retreat.

But Connor had seen her turn her head, and he followed her gaze. The little cat hunched his back and hissed. Connor whipped out his wand and snarled, "_Obtero!_"

"_No!_" Sarah screamed, at the same time Carabas yowled. In a blink, he had skittered out of sight, whether hurt or not, it was impossible to say. Sarah was afraid Connor would pursue him, but instead he rounded on her, his wand still extended.

"I told you to keep your gob shut!"

Sarah's vision shrank suddenly to the point of his wand trembling between them, and the murderous eyes behind it. But before Sarah could fully realize that this was her last moment alive, Connor growled in his throat and his wand swung wide.

"_Reducto!_"

The table beside her crumpled into splinters, and Sarah gave an involuntary yelp. She shied away, certain that Connor would punish her for the sound, but he only turned and blasted the other chair with a hissed incantation.

"People will _hear_ you," Sarah warned urgently, trying to find some means of stopping him before he destroyed everything they owned.

"Just a spot of bother between Snape and the missus," Connor said, with a twist of his lip.

"We don't _break_ things! Madam Dorn will have the house-elf up here in a minute, and then you'll be caught." Which, upon tardy reflection, she should have simply permitted to happen. But as much as Sarah hated to admit it, Severus's temperament was such that no one in the building would likely be surprised if he _did_ start smashing things.

But Connor must have taken her warning to heart, because he stopped breaking the furniture. He stood reflecting for a moment, before began waving his wand again.

"_Scribendi!_"

The effects were not immediately apparent, but as he moved his wand in short, sharp jabs, unlike any spell-casting that Sarah knew of, letters appeared on the wall in front of him, like great swashes of paint, garish and blood red.

S N A P E Y O U K U N –

"Isn't that rather _juvenile?_" she blurted out, unsure whether there was a spell that would remove the damage.

Connor struck her, then. Not with wand or fist, but with the back of his hand across her face. She turned from the blow, but it raked across her cheek, leaving fiery, stinging lines.

"_I said shut up!_"

As stunned as she was at her own foolish temerity, she was more surprised that he hadn't touched her until this moment. That he had done so little damage when he did. But perhaps he was going to have to work himself up to really hurting her. That was too horrible an idea to contemplate, even if it gave her more time. She kept her face averted, shivering.

Connor moved away from her. Curiously (although to Sarah's relief), his vandalous impulse did not reassert itself, but he began pacing the room like a tiger in a cage.

"When's he going to get back?" he snapped.

It occurred to Sarah for the first time that the man might not have planned this attack as well Severus would have. She wished fervently that the answer was _now_. But it was becoming clearer and clearer that it was Severus Connor wanted. Whatever he planned to do, he would not do it until the other man arrived.

"He had business at Hogwarts," she said. And then, hoping it would put Connor off attempting to wait out his enemy's absence, added, "He might not return until tomorrow."

"Send him a message."

"I don't have an owl."

"What do you mean, you don't have an owl?" He swore nastily at her, then, because every toff had an owl.

"I could just sit here while you nip off to the post office," Sarah suggested, not entirely facetiously. "I could give you the key to my Gringott's vault and a note, so you could buy me an owl, since I'm obviously so deficient in not having one."

"Don't tell me you've no way of contacting him!" Connor growled.

_No_, she realized uncomfortably, _I don't_. There were the phoenix messages, but although she had heard the incantation, she had no idea how the spell worked or how to use it. Not that she hadn't _asked_. But Severus had deemed it too dangerous for her to know more about the Order's means of communication. If she were discovered using it, the Dark Lord would know instantly that she had been introduced to the Order and, hence, that she and Severus had betrayed him.

"I have friends and family here," Sarah said. "I've no need to contact him myself." A bright sliver of hope dawned in her: Miriam came to check on her in the afternoon, more often than not. She might not dare to call out a warning or a plea to Miriam, but she could certainly think of something to say that would arouse the woman's suspicions, although not being allowed inside would, of itself, do that. Unless, she realized glumly, he took Miriam prisoner as well.

"Ain't he worried about when _that_ will come?" Connor gestured to her abdomen, half-covered by the magical cords. Inside her, the baby had begun kicking experimentally at the unfamiliar constriction.

"I'm sure the midwife would send him a message by owl," Sarah said. She still wasn't sure that it would be a good thing to involve Miriam, but she needed outside help, somehow.

Connor appeared to waver, too, about drawing another person into his web, but finally he said, "Get her here, then!"

"I'd have to send a message by one of the street urchins." Either he would allow it or he wouldn't. If he did, she had a chance to try to warn Miriam in advance.

Connor scowled, his brow tightening in thought. "I see," he said, and a trace of a smirk touched the corners of his lips again. He turned and went to the window, threw open the casement, and shouted down, "Get the midwife, right quick!"

Would whoever ran with the message realize it was not Severus who had shouted from the window, and in turn, mention that fact to Miriam? Connor moved away from the window so quickly that her hope of that diminished. Miriam would be walking into a trap. Sarah's stomach began knotting again.

Connor resumed his pacing, this time staying within earshot of the window, twiddling his wand between his fingers. "That'll bring him soon enough," he hissed to himself. He sounded more pleased than he had since he'd arrived.

In his new mood, Connor appeared unconcerned at any further delay. But to Sarah it seemed a long, long time before a child's voice shouted up, "She's to another birthing. She'll come as quick as she can." There was a querying note in the last few words; unmistakably, the messenger wanted a coin for his work. When none fell from the window, the boy screamed, "Mingy git!"

Connor only laughed.

"That may be _hours_," Sarah said. Although Miriam might very well send Cornelia to check on her, and Sarah doubted that the young woman's magical skills extended much further than household spells.

Without warning, there was a pop of Apparition outside the door. Too soon for Miriam to have gotten a message to Severus. Too soon for it to be anyone but Miriam or Cornelia, and they wouldn't Apparate within the Alley. Wouldn't Apparate at all, if they could help it, since neither had a proper license from the Ministry. _Dumbledore?_ Sarah's heart rose involuntarily at the unlikely possibility.

Connor stiffened. In a flash of movement, he drew a long knife from inside his robes with his left hand. Sarah's heart began pounding ever more frantically as he stalked around behind her and laid the cold steel against her throat. Harm to her would be the coercion against whoever stood outside. In her peripheral vision, she saw that his wand was fixed on the door.

"Sarah?" Severus called.

At the sound of his voice, she gave an inadvertent sob. Then she flinched, as Connor to pressed the knife closer to her neck.

Severus must have heard her, because his voice tightened. "Sarah? Lift the wards!"

Connor flicked his wand, and the door flew open.

Severus was not unprepared: his wand was in his hand, and it went automatically to point at Connor. But as he took in the situation, Sarah saw him shudder with restrained rage, his dark eyes widening until the whites were visible.

"_How did he get in here?_"

All the Ministry warnings about making sure people were who you thought they were flashed through her mind, accusing her of her stupidity. And Connor hadn't even had to use Polyjuice.

"Welcome home, Snape," Connor said. "Step in and shut the door behind you."

Severus slammed it shut.

"This matter is between you and me, Connor," he said tightly, his wand never wavering from the other man. His eyes flicked rapidly over the damage that had been done, and his face darkened another shade. "The girl has no part in it. Let her go."

"Oh, don't she?" Connor laughed nastily. "It was her you was trying to protect when you put me in the nick. You won't have your big post long, when Dumbledore hears what you've been up to with your students."

"She was not responsible for your—"

"Don't make her responsible for much, do you?" Connor interrupted. "Didn't even tell her what I did to her aunt. But then, maybe you've got good reason not to trust her, the way she let me waltz right in here..."

"Clearly she is too stupid to pose any threat to you," Severus said. And even though she believed he was trying to protect her, his tone was convincing enough to pain her to the heart. But his face had paled slightly again. "This is a matter between wizards."

"Oh, I agree," Connor said. "But I wanted to be sure you didn't try anything...well..._stupid_." He took the knife from Sarah's throat and dropped it to the floor with a clatter that made them all startle. But he remained behind her, keeping her as a shield, and his wand did not move from pointing at Severus. She heard him fumbling again in his robes, and when he extended his arm again, Sarah could see that he held a tattered white glove in his hand.

"A duel, then?" Severus asked. His expression was mocking, but his voice was wary.

"Ain't that the way you toffs do it?" He tossed the glove at Severus, who let it fall at his feet. "Don't you want to take this business far away from her? It's a Portkey, Snape. I got the mate to it here." He fumbled in his robes once more, and held up another glove. "Let's go settle this!"

"No!" Sarah said. Not that she expected either of them to pay any heed to her. But she did not care for the idea of Severus being whisked away who-knew-where to fight a magical duel. Even though Severus was likely the better wizard, she could not imagine that Connor intended a fair fight.

Severus glared at Connor, his face etched with suspicion. And, Sarah realized, with uncertainty.

"Or do you really want me to involve her?" Connor threatened, as his opponent hesitated. "_Coward!_"

As Sarah watched the color flare again in Severus's face, and saw his teeth clench, she knew any hope of him ignoring the man's challenge was lost. His eyes dropped, unexpectedly, to hers.

"If I'm gone more than an hour, look for my safe box," he said, as coolly as if he were giving her the instructions for a potion. But his eyes said something more troubling. Then his gaze flicked meaningfully past her, for no longer than an instant, and before she could follow it, his eyes locked again with hers in terrible, silent farewell.

"_No!_" she pleaded, but it was too late.

Silently, Severus called the fallen glove to his hand.

Behind her, Connor shouted, "One... two..._three!_"

**

* * *

A/N:** Can anyone identify the original source for the Jabizri beetles? 

In case you're thinking you missed something...no, this really _is_ the first time we've heard the name of Sarah's village. I just never thought it was important until now! I plan to do a full re-edit at some point to tweak a few little things like that.

And just to mention it again, this chapter couldn't have happened without the constant support of Lady Whitehart (who is, I will remark, an excellent author in her own right—check out her holiday drabbles; they're a lot of fun!).


	58. Ch 57: What Horrors Wait For Me

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** It's not mine, I just like to play with it. (Gee, that sounds awful!)

**A/N:** It cheers me up to see that I haven't been completely given up on. It's more than I deserve, after abandoning you all for months. Thank you for reading and reviewing! And, as always, thanks to cecelle and Lady Whitehart for beta-ing.

This was a difficult and unpleasant chapter to write, particularly near the ending. You'll see.

**

* * *

Chapter 57: What Horrors Wait For Me?**

"Help!" Sarah screamed, the moment they disappeared. "Help me!" Although it was dubious, Knockturn Alley being what it was, that anyone but a family member would choose to involve themselves in her troubles.

Connor's long knife lay on the floor near her feet. In other circumstances, she would have tipped the chair over and tried to wiggle her hand close enough to grab it, to at least attempt to cut herself free of the magical cords. But she dared not risk a fall now. Instead, she began pushing the chair across the floor with her feet, hoping to at least be better heard, closer to the window.

"Someone _help!_"

Even now, Severus was probably doing battle with Connor. Provided that Connor had not set too clever a trap. But that set of Portkeys suggested forethought and skill. He had had months to plan his attack on Severus. Severus, quick and canny as he was, would only have seconds to react.

Tears of desperation and fury started in Sarah's eyes. "_Please_, someone help!"

"I'm coming, Sarah!" a woman's voice called up from below. _Cornelia's?_

Sarah found herself sobbing in earnest; great gasping sobs, part relief, part horror. Connor's cruel face hung her mind's eye. He had killed Aunt Portia. The image of him standing over her aunt's body changed, and it was Severus lying there, dead, while Connor sneered.

"_Damn you, Connor! Damn you to hell!_" she wept.

Rapid footsteps, barely heard over her sobbing breaths, clattered on the stairs. Then the door burst open.

"What on earth?!" Cornelia stared in disbelief at the scene that met her eyes. "Severus wouldn't—"

"It was _Connor_, Isaac _Connor_. I was so _stupid_—I let him in. I thought...he was...Severus... coming...back." Sarah found herself gasping for the breath to speak.

Cornelia, showing that, when it came to a pinch, she was as sensible as her mother, flicked out her wand and charmed the cords loose. "He's gone?" she asked, glancing anxiously at the bedroom door where it stood ajar.

"He wanted _Severus_." Sarah ripped at the magical ropes, casting them down around the foot of her chair. "He had a Portkey."

Cornelia laid a hand on Sarah's cheek, encouraging the other girl to look into her eyes. There was a silent plea there, for her to calm down, for her to make sense. "Sarah, where is Severus?"

"Connor took him! Or...he went with Connor. They were going to duel...but I know..." Sarah ran out of breath again.

"Did he hurt you?" Cornelia fingered the still-tender lines, burned further by the salt of her tears, that the man's backhanded slap had left on Sarah's face. Had he had left welts? Sarah raised her own hand to feel, as Cornelia studied the rest of her for evidence of damage. "Did he hurt the baby?"

"No." Sarah shook her head. "I don't know why. If he wanted to hurt Severus..."

"Just be grateful," Cornelia said firmly. "Someone sent a message that you needed my mother." It was more than half a question, as the older girl stared at Sarah's stomach.

"That was Connor." Sarah felt the lurching desire to sob calming slowly in her, being eaten up by the more steady flame of rage. "He thought your mother would find a way to get Severus back quick."

"She needs to check you. I can't see that you've come to any more harm than this." Cornelia touched her cheek again. "But the strain of all this... Come lay down in your room. She'll be here when she's done at Burkes'."

"But _Severus!_" Sarah protested. "It was a trap! I'm sure it was trap!"

"Do you know where they went?" Cornelia asked, and when Sarah shook her head, she went on, "There's nothing you can do about it, Sarah! Not now. You have to rest. I'll take care of all this." She gestured to the mess.

_I don't know where they went_. Even if she could somehow contact Professor Dumbledore, she couldn't begin to tell him where to look for Severus. Unless the headmaster had some means of finding people that was beyond the common run of magic. And if he had that, why hadn't he tracked Severus back to the Dark Lord before now and put an end to the menace for once and for all?

Reluctantly, she permitted Cornelia to urge her to bed. The very sight of the bed brought tears spilling again from her eyes. If she should never lie there with him again...

She had just settled on her side, clutching Cornelia's handkerchief, when she remembered the safe box, whatever that was. It had not been an hour—scarcely even a quarter of that yet—but if there was something inside that might help her find him...

"I need to look for—" she began, struggling to sit up again. But Cornelia pressed her down again.

"No, you do not! So help me, Sarah, if you struggle with me anymore..."

"But you don't understand! He said if he didn't come back—" Her voice broke on the word.

"You don't know yet that he won't," Cornelia said. "You can't go on like this." She raised her wand. "_Somniferous!_"

Sarah had no strength with which to fight off the simple sleeping spell, a fact she only realized as she tried to break its hold. Her limbs were like water, and they grew heavier and heavier, along with her eyes. "I...have...to..." It came out as a mumble, and then she could not remember what she had to do, although she knew it was something important. Her muscles tried to tense, as if for one final effort, but she was so tired, and a soothing darkness was closing in around her...

* * *

She woke with a start, to find Miriam sitting on the edge of the bed. 

"There now, calm yourself," Miriam said. "I'll not have you working yourself into a frenzy again."

It all came rushing back in a flood of anguish.

"But _Severus_," Sarah whispered.

"Severus is well able to take of himself." Miriam smoothed back Sarah's hair from her face. "He's been doing so long before he took up with you, my girl. If I may be so bold as to remind you—since before you were born." Miriam's expression did not quite match the heartening tone of her words, but it was clear she intended to brook no contradiction.

"But Connor planned—" She had to make Miriam understand.

"No doubt," Miriam interrupted. "But Severus'll not have been caught napping."

"But he intends to reveal us! He realized I was a student, when he saw me. He knows! If Severus doesn't kill him—"

"Then Severus will kill him," Miriam said, as if that were that. But a line creased her forehead that had not been there a moment ago. "Now, Cornelia says you haven't started travailing in earnest." She splayed her hands on Sarah's abdomen for a quiet minute before she went on. "And I concur. But I feel that you're much nearer the time—perhaps nearer than you should be. Your fretting can do Severus no good at all now, and he would not thank you if he found that you'd done yourself or the child harm by it."

_But_, thought Sarah, with a sudden wrenching of her heart, _if Severus is already dead_...

"There now," Miriam caught the anguished change in her expression. "I'll have you off to sleep again if you work yourself up. I know you're upset. We all are." It was the nearest the woman's voice had come to expressing real fear. "But until we see a way clear to do something, we must garner our strength. You most of all, cherub. Cornelia's making a broth for you. And here it is," she said, as her daughter came into the room.

The rest of that evening passed in a painful blur of endless, helpless moments. An hour had gone, long past, and he had not returned. But Miriam refused to let her get up and go searching for the box Severus had referred to, and neither she nor Cornelia could find anything of the sort.

"It'll wait 'til the morrow," Miriam pronounced.

Carabas jumped up on the bed at last, revealing that he had survived Connor's attack, but he was cold comfort to Sarah. Severus had hated him. How could she love him now?

She raged at Connor, at the Notts; she pleaded with Miriam to do something, anything; to send her sons looking for him, since they might know where Knockturn wizards would go to duel; she begged them to find the box; she told them to send an owl to Professor Dumbledore. Most of all, she blamed herself. It was her foolish assumptions that had given Connor the opportunity he'd been seeking.

No, Miriam countered, the man had obviously planned to lie in wait for Severus. He would have found a means, one way or another, sooner or later. At every wrenching turn of Sarah's thoughts, Miriam stood ready to stop her. She held the sleeping spell over her like a threat. It would be better not to use it again, lest her child take some small harm from it, but if Sarah made it necessary...

At last, as the darkness grew outside the window, plunging the bedroom into a blackness that Miriam made no move to remedy, agony faded into nightmare, and nightmare into restless sleep.

* * *

When Sarah woke in the dawn light, she felt someone at her back. Her heart lifted suddenly—Severus had come home! But it was only Cornelia, whose eyes opened as soon as Sarah turned over on the bed. 

"How do you feel?"

"Severus isn't back?" Sarah asked. The dashing of her hopes, rather than launching her into hysteria again, left her in a kind of quiet despair.

Cornelia shook her head. "But I've been asleep since afore midnight." She got to her feet and smoothed down her clothes. "I'll find out. And I'll make some breakfast. Don't _you_ move."

The restlessness she had felt last night still twitched at Sarah's bones. But something deeper made her disinclined to move. She lay still, half turned on her side, staring at the walls and ceiling, feeling her abdomen tighten.

Severus had not come back. It was pointless for Cornelia to pretend that might have changed during the night. He would have burst into the flat the moment he returned to see if she was all right.

Unless he was injured? A hopeful image formed in her mind: Miriam tending to Severus's wounds. Although, if he had been badly hurt, it was more likely he would have been taken to St. Mungo's.

If anyone had found him. If Connor had not left him dying or dead in a field somewhere, far from Muggle habitations. No, Connor would know that if Severus' body turned up anywhere, Sarah could point the finger straight at him. If Severus was dead, it was probable that his body would never be found.

The tears that came with that thought did not fall; they sat heavily behind her eyes, a pain that had not the decency to be either sharp or dull, but something in between. The impulse to rage was gone. Instead, Sarah felt as if her soul had been ripped out, as if a deep, empty hole had opened inside her, waiting to suck her down.

It did no good to lie here, doing nothing. But there was nothing she could do. The pressure on her abdomen eased, and heaviness crept over her limbs, as thoroughly as the sleep spell, though she did not feel in the least bit sleepy. It would almost be a mercy to sleep more. To sleep and not wake until Severus came back. Or least until they _knew_.

Would she know, she wondered then; would she know if Severus was dead? Would the magic that secured their marriage bond tell her if he were alive or not?

She reached out with everything that was in her, searching for some sense of his existence. Some empty place that would mean he was dead. Some quiet assurance that he yet lived. She sought for a long time. She turned her wedding band on her finger, as if some part of their marriage bond resided there that could be woken and brought to her aid. Had he been wearing his ring? No, he would not have, not when he was going to Hogwarts.

There was no answer. No inner conviction that he lived. No quiet, irrefutable knowledge of his death. It should not be so. She ought to know if her child's father was still alive or not. There were dozens of songs and stories that told her so. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, she should have suffered through Professor Trelawney's Divination class after all. Or perhaps, more likely, she was simply not born with the gift.

She willed her listless muscles to move, slipped her hand across her abdomen. If Severian was all she had left... _It was not supposed to turn out like this_, she thought, a surge of pain and anger washing over her. _Why must I always be left alone in the world?_

Cornelia, when she brought in the tea, found her weeping silently.

"Sarah, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wish there was something more I could do."

Sarah looked up, fearful that there was hidden import in Cornelia's words.

"No." Cornelia shook her head. "Mum hasn't come back yet, so I don't know anything. She was right knackered last night, after Jenna Burke's lying-in. Took more than a day, and Mum was afraid once or twice that..." Cornelia broke off, as if realizing that her tale was best not told to Sarah. "But the point is," she went on, a little flustered, "she would have sent Nick or Devin if there'd been any news."

"Did they go looking for him?" Sarah asked, sitting up, trying to dry her face with the back of her hands until she spied Cornelia's crumpled handkerchief beside her.

"I don't know. If they didn't, they will. Mum will see to that. Dad doesn't like to get too involved in...well, in Severus's business. But this is something else, isn't it?"

Sarah had noticed that none of the Snapes referred to the Dark Lord, even as You-Know-Who, if they could help it. "If it were that, I'm sure Connor would have said something." If Connor had been given such an assignment from the Dark Lord, she doubted he could have restrained himself from gloating about it. "Do you know what Connor had against him?"

"I don't." Cornelia frowned ruefully. "I was hardly more than a little girl when Severus went to teach at Hogwarts. They must have known each other when they were younger. Least that's the way Dad talks of it."

Sarah nodded. She'd had nothing, back on that horrible night in the graveyard, with which to decode the conversation between the two men, but it had been obvious they'd known each other for a long time. Which meant that they might well have places in common that no one outside their childhood circles would know about. Was that a possibility? But she had no way of identifying Severus's childhood friends or foes. Miriam might know. Probably, to give the woman credit, she had already thought of that.

There was a knock on the outside door.

"You drink your tea!" Cornelia ordered, as she went into the outer room.

Feeling the need of something to strengthen her, regardless of who was at the door, Sarah snatched the cup from the tray. She was a little surprised to hear Cornelia lifting wards; somehow it had not occurred to her that she could possibly be in further danger. Miriam greeted her daughter. Then their voices dropped so she could not make out their words. That could not be a good sign. She was just setting aside the empty teacup, ready to confront Miriam and demand the truth, when Miriam came in.

"Got hold of yourself this morning?"

Sarah swallowed hard, rattled by Miriam's strange heartlessness. But the woman had been just as heartless last night. A consciousness of that terrible hole inside came to Sarah again.

"I'm as well as I can be, not knowing if my husband is alive or dead," she answered bitterly.

Miriam seemed taken aback, in her turn, by Sarah's manner. But she settled her shoulders after a moment. "Everything is being done that can be," she said, a little stiffly.

"_Everything?_" Sarah asked. "What's been done?"

"Nicholas has scoured every spot he knows of for private dueling, and Caius has been out asking questions about Connor, last night and since the first dim of the morning. Seems the man took a room at the Mermaid three nights ago, but he's not been there since yesterday morning."

"Did you write to Professor Dumbledore?"

Miriam looked uncomfortable. "I thought that was a matter best left to you. As soon as you've had your toast, you can write it out and I'll post it."

As if on cue, Cornelia brought in a plate. She ducked out again with Sarah's cup to refill it.

"I know of nothing more to do," Miriam said, sounding a trifle defensive. "If I knew, I promise you I would be doing it."

Sarah, eating as quickly as she could, although her stomach wanted nothing at all, did not answer. _As if there were any way to track a Portkey_...

Sarah almost choked; she swallowed hard as Miriam dove in to pat her back. "The Ministry might be able to track a Portkey," she said urgently, as soon as she could. "It could hardly have been a legal one. And they monitor for illegal magic."

"Not here." Miriam shook her head. "You ought to know that by now."

"But if they went someplace _outside_ theAlley. And they must have." Sarah felt energy coming back to her. "Connor would hardly have made an elaborate illegal Portkey to carry them a few hundred yards."

"I'm surprised he would have the skill to start with," Miriam said.

"We've got to get hold of the Ministry somehow." Sarah did not need Miriam's doubtful expression to tell her that it would be difficult to do that from inside Knockturn.

"Would anyone listen or care?" Miriam asked wryly. "Perhaps, seeing as the missing man is a teacher at Hogwarts. But who would you address the message to?"

"I could go there," Sarah said. Although she had only the vaguest of ideas where the Ministry of Magic actually _was_. The only time she had ever been there was for the settlement of her father's will, and that was nearly ten years ago.

"You will _not_," Miriam averred. "Not as near to your time as you are."

"I feel perfectly alright!"

But Miriam was firm. "You've had a nasty shock and a dreadful experience, only yesterday, and you're near your time. Wandering across the city through Muggle crowds would be a foolish risk."

"I have to do _something_, Miriam!" The sense of despair seemed once more ready to devour her.

"Then write your letter to your headmaster. Surely he'll take whatever steps can be taken out there. He was reinstated to the Wizengamot, wasn't he?"

That, Sarah could not help but agree, was a very good point. With Miriam clucking that parchment and pen could as easily be brought to her, she stood up and went out to the kitchen.

Cornelia had done a thorough job of trying to repair the damage. The room was tidy, and the magical paint had apparently come off after all, although Sarah felt a strange pang of wishing that it had not: it had at least been visual proof that Severus had lived in this flat, that he had existed. That was foolishness—it had been an _insult_, for goodness sake!—and she tried to shake it off.

But as much as Cornelia had restored, the missing table and chair were all too obvious evidence of Connor's triumph yesterday. Realizing sinkingly that she would have to find another place to write, she bent awkwardly to the drawer where the parchment and ink were kept, her back and her stomach muscles protesting the motion.

"I could have got that," Cornelia said, too late.

Miriam, however, seemed to have concluded that letting Sarah do a little was better than trying to keep her quiet. She stood watching, her sharp eyes following Sarah's progress, but saying nothing.

Sarah had concluded that a largish book would be the best substitute writing surface, and she pulled the largest of her pregnancy manuals from the bedside table. It was nearly impossible to get into a comfortable position to write while sitting on the bed, but she had little choice.

_Professor Dumbledore_, she wrote, realizing with a pang that, should the Dark Lord somehow become aware of it, this letter would ruin all their carefully constructed deceptions. But he would not, she told herself sternly; he had no reason to intercept this particular piece of mail. It would be Miriam who posted it, at the Shadow Post no less.

_I fear that something terrible has happened to Severus. I let in Isaac Connor yesterday by mistake, and when Severus returned from Hogwarts, Connor challenged him to a duel. He had a set of Portkeys (two gloves) and Severus went with him_.

_He hasn't come back_. Reading the words, all set out in ink, was agonizing. But at least the headmaster would soon know what was happening. And if anyone could help...

_He told me to find something he called a "safe box" if he didn't return within the hour_.

"Did you ever find the box?" Sarah asked, raising her head.

"I hadn't thought to look yet this morning," Miriam admitted. "But there were no mysterious boxes to be found last night."

"I looked high and low," said Cornelia, who had followed them back into the bedroom with the second cup of tea. She had been holding it anxiously, but now she set it on the bedside table. "Shall I look again?"

"Please," Sarah answered gratefully.

"Are you certain it's here, instead of at Hogwarts?" Miriam asked, as Cornelia knelt and lifted the blankets to peer underneath the bed.

Sarah considered this. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "He did look off for a moment toward..." she pondered, "perhaps toward the fireplace..."

"Ask your headmaster to check and see if it's there in his rooms."

_I can't seem to locate such a thing, and as it's the last thing he said, it seems as if it might be important. Could he have left it there at Hogwarts, in his quarters?_

_The Ministry can track an illegal Portkey, can't they? It was yesterday (Friday) afternoon, here in our flat. Connor gave no hint where they were going, and none of the Snapes have been able to find out anything._

_One more thing: Connor recognized me, from the graveyard at Halloween. He threatened to expose Severus. I thought you should know._

Sarah was not sure what more to write. Expressing her fears would not cause the headmaster to act any more quickly or thoroughly, and neither would pleading with him to do something. Time was more important now than anything else she might say. She quickly signed,

Sarah 

She folded up the parchment and addressed it to _Headmaster Dumbledore_, _Hogwarts_, but when she went to seal it, she realized that she did not have her wand.

"He took my wand!" she burst out indignantly, as if, on top of everything else, that was too much to bear. Connor had still had it tucked in his robes when he disappeared with Severus.

"Oh dear," Miriam said, frowning. "Well, let me seal the letter. We'll worry about getting you another wand later. Now, settle yourself. There's nothing more to be done now. Read your books or try to sleep again. Cornelia, put the ink and all away."

Sarah picked up her tea as Cornelia went back to the kitchen. Miriam's wand had flared briefly over the letter, and now she was slipping it between the buttons of her blouse.

"Better no one sees me carrying this from here," the woman commented. "I'll be back in a trice."

Sarah heard Cornelia raising wards as the outer door closed. Would Connor really go so far as to come back and kill her, too? She was not really sure, even now, why he had not killed her, or at least hurt her or the baby while he had the chance. Would it not, she thought gruesomely, have been a worse blow to Severus to return and find his wife and child dead, with Connor gloating, ready and waiting to kill him as well? Conner seemed the type to do just such a thing. That night in the graveyard he had been more pleased with the idea of destroying his enemy's life rather than actually killing him. And yet he had not taken that opportunity when he could have. Sarah and the child dead, and Severus implicated in seducing a student...even in murdering her himself, she realized with a chill of horror—that was the sort of thing that could be expected of a man like Connor. But he had not taken that way.

Sarah stared at the leaves in the bottom of her cup.

"Do you know how to read tea leaves?" she asked Cornelia, as the older girl came into the room.

"Not in any serious kind of way," Cornelia said. "There was an old woman who sat and told fortunes when I was younger, and I took up with her for a while." She took Sarah's cup, shook it gently for a moment, and then peered at it, turning it slightly. "Nothing very clear," she said with a sigh. "Some wavy lines—that's misfortune or enemies, which is obvious; that's already happened." She frowned, tipping the cup. "No, that's a key."

"What does that mean?" Sarah asked anxiously, as if leaves in a cup could mean anything at all.

"Well, good things...prosperity, a fortunate marriage..." Sarah huffed softly, and Cornelia looked up. "Well, that is hopeful, isn't it?"

Sarah took the cup back. The leaves had settled in little ridges along one side, which must be what Cornelia was seeing as wavy lines. Near the bottom was a sort of cross with a something vaguely like a circle on the long end. If it was a key, it was a curiously simple one.

"What does a cross mean?" she asked. When Cornelia did not answer immediately, she looked up. The other girl was frowning deeply.

"Just what you'd think," Cornelia said, her voice cracking with distress. "Suffering." She reached hastily to wipe away a tear that had sprung out onto her cheek. "But it isn't a cross; it's a key." She gave a sorrowful smile. "Everything will turn out all right."

She took the cup back from Sarah and held it down at her side, as if not to look at it again. "When Mum comes back, I need to go tend to some things at home."

Sarah felt a stab of guilt at the realization that her troubles were taking Cornelia and Miriam from their own responsibilities.

"You just lie down. Do you want me to sit with you? Or would you rather try to sleep?"

"I'll try to sleep," Sarah said, although she hardly felt sleepy. Just exhausted, for all that she'd scarcely been up an hour. She settled herself uneasily against the pillow, then started up again. "Carabas! Have you seen him?" She had not seen the little cat this morning.

"I let him out," Cornelia said. "He'll likely come back in with Mum."

Sarah lay back, hardly reassured. With the way her fate was running, it seemed all too likely that Carabas would be snatched from her, too. Even without a Muggle lorry anywhere in sight.

* * *

Sarah did sleep, in spite of herself. She woke to find the little cat curled near her feet, and she provoked an offended meow when she caught him up and hugged him. The sound also provoked footsteps. Miriam appeared in the doorway. 

"What time is it?" Sarah asked. She could see from Miriam's face that it was of no use to ask if there were any news.

"Past noon," Miriam said. "You'd best have your lunch."

"You got the letter away?"

"I did. No suspicions raised there. I told Hob that Severus had asked me to post it. I daresay you'll have an answer tomorrow."

Tomorrow. And every day that passed, perhaps every hour, took away another sliver of hope that Severus would ever return.

Miriam must have taken in the change in Sarah's expression, because she said bracingly, "I'll bring your sandwich, and you'll eat it."

It was only the older woman's hovering presence that forced Sarah to do as she had been told. Her stomach was in knots at the thought of food, and only a very little better after she'd eaten.

"You need something to do," Miriam said, as she took the crumb-covered plate. "Sleep is all well and good, but you can't sleep forever, and it'll do you and the child no good for you to brood."

"How can I help but brood?" Sarah snapped, out of patience with Miriam's lack of sympathy. "What would you do if Caius disappeared?"

Miriam's mouth set in a curiously somber line.

"I have lost a husband, in my time," she said, and Sarah remembered in dismay that Devin and Nick were not Caius's sons. "I know what are you feeling, cherub. And I know there's no help for it. Only time."

"Then you think Severus _is_ dead?" Sarah's voice cracked, as agony overwhelmed her again.

"I don't know," Miriam admitted. "But you fear it, and that grief will work ill on the child, and on you. I know whereof I speak." A hint of her accustomed sympathy crept into her eyes. "You're a strong girl. I know you've suffered a great deal already, but it's given you the mettle to carry on, unbroken."

"I don't feel unbroken!" Those bitter tears of self-pity were welling up again, falling angrily from her eyes.

"You've known, before now, that Severus lives a life of hazards," Miriam said with forced sternness. "Don't tell me you've not considered before what might happen."

It was true. How many times had she fretted when he had been summoned by the Dark Lord? And what, Sarah wondered with a start, would happen now on that front? If Severus was summoned and did not appear? Would the Dark Lord send someone in search of him? Would he send someone to bring Sarah to give an accounting of her husband's absence? And if that messenger were Bellatrix Lestrange... Sarah shuddered.

"You must carry on, Sarah. And you needn't fear that we'll abandon you."

Sarah looked up at Miriam. She had never imagined that Severus's family would cast her off. But she felt a surge of gratitude to Miriam for saying so. She reached out and clasped the older woman's free hand.

"I just don't know what to do."

"Nor do any of us." Miriam stroked the back of her hand with her thumb. After a silent minute she asked, "Would you prefer to read? Or shall I bring you to the Grimms'? You might feel better in company."

Sarah shook her head. "I'll read, I think." Subverting the probability of being told to keep still, Sarah got to her feet and went to the trunk that held the books. She pulled out one on poisons—a least she could imagine Connor dying from every one of them—and took it back to the bed.

* * *

The guard—as Sarah had begun to think of it—changed in the late afternoon, when Cornelia returned and Miriam went to prepare supper. Her mind was numb with reading. No, it had been numb before that, and the words had passed through her brain without making much of a dent, despite her resolve to get some small satisfaction for her anger. Cornelia said little, spending her time stitching on a small garment that must be meant for Sarah's baby. 

When Cornelia answered the next knock on the door, Sarah paid little attention. But then Sarah heard a man's voice and slid to her feet as quickly as her body would move.

Standing in the outer room, with Miriam, was Caius Snape, looking disgruntled and uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Sarah asked, with a rising sense of alarm.

"No news," Miriam said. "But Caius had an idea."

"Not that it will tell us where Severus has got to," the elder Snape said gruffly.

"What, then?" Sarah stepped into the front room, studying the Snapes with puzzled curiosity.

"It's a Dark spell, mind you," Miriam said uneasily.

"It'll work," Caius said. "That's the only thing that concerns me." He bent to set down a small cage that held a largish rat; then, out of his robes, he drew a long knife. "Now where was that evil git standing when he disappeared?"

Sarah blinked. It took her a moment to reorient herself. To get a grip on the unease she felt at both Caius's presence in the flat and the possibilities of his apparent intention. She moved across the room, everyone making way for her. The chair had long since been moved, but she thought it had stood about _there_. Yes, she could see some faint scrape marks where she had pushed her way toward the window.

"About here," she said, hesitantly, pointing. "What do you intend to do?"

"Location spell," Caius grunted, as he knelt down. He placed the long knife, which Sarah suddenly realized was Connor's, on the floor where she had indicated. "Got nothing with an edge that Severus handled recently?"

"Just a knife for cutting ingredients," Sarah said, a faint sense of hope rising again.

"Huh. How many days?"

Sarah thought back, feeling the familiar swing towards despair. "Four or five."

"Not good enough." Caius shook his head. "And I daresay it's never taken a life. That makes a difference in the strength of the spell. This one has. I'm certain of it."

Sarah shuddered. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Find Connor," Caius answered testily. "Now step back and let me work without hindering."

Miriam put her arm around Sarah as she backed up toward the fireplace side of the room. Cornelia backed up toward the other side; she put a hand to her mouth and, after a moment, began chewing nervously at her nails.

Caius appeared to have positioned the knife to his satisfaction, because he turned now and reached for the cage.

"I don't like this," Cornelia said.

"Go, then," Caius said sharply. "Just keep out of my way. Not another sound from the lot of you. Les' you want to spoil the spell." He eyed them with the same kind of disdain that Sarah remembered from her first five years of Potions; her throat tightened.

In spite of all her recent studies, she felt a degree of horror as Caius pulled out another, smaller knife, then reached into the cage. The rat squealed fiercely, and Caius cursed; it must have bitten him. It continued to squeal and struggle in his grip, as he held it out above Connor's knife. Cornelia looked away. But Sarah made herself watch as Caius's little blade flashed. Blood began dripping, although the creature had not yet stopped struggling. Lifeblood, Sarah thought. There was more power in blood taken while the victim still lived. She might have to do such things, and worse, if she became the Dark Lord's potion-maker. Was that more or less likely to happen now, if Severus were dead?

Caius had dribbled the blood in a circle around Connor's knife before all hint of movement had ceased. He set aside the body, and began drawing the blood into signs and sigils with his finger. Sarah swallowed hard. She had seen her father work such magic a few times, although he had never used a live victim. At least not in her presence. Perhaps he had been afraid she would run to her mother with the tale. She might well have. Even now, the oily sense of Dark magic in the air made her feel unclean.

Finally Caius drew his wand and began the incantation. On the final words, Connor's knife began to spin. It spun faster and faster, rising a few inches off the floor, and Sarah shifted her weight uneasily, hoping that it would not suddenly fling itself across the room.

"That's done it," Caius said, rising quickly to his feet. "When it stops, it'll be pointing the direction, and we'll have an image to go by reflected on the blade."

The knife had risen about a foot in the air now. All of them, even Cornelia, watched it tensely. Then, without warning, the blade flashed as the spinning altered abruptly. Caius cried out a warning. But it proved unnecessary.

With a thunk, the blade buried itself an inch deep in the floor and stuck there, quivering. When the shivering stopped, the force of the magic entirely expended at last, Caius stepped closer to peer at it. "Blade's gone black."

"Didn't it work?" Sarah asked, distressed both at the apparent failure of the spell and a sudden realization of her own lack of wisdom in permitting Caius to work Dark magic under her roof.

"What does it mean, Caius?" Miriam asked.

Caius looked up at his womenfolk with a curious expression, troubled and yet strangely triumphant.

"I don't know what good or ill it means for us, nor for Severus. But Isaac Connor is dead."

**

* * *

A/N:** Yes, Lady Whitehart got me through this one, too. I hope Caius's Dark magic creeped you out. It sure creeped me out to write it! 


	59. Ch 58: Before It's Too Late

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** No, I didn't get the copyright for Harry Potter for Christmas. Too bad, isn't it? :~(

**A/N: **This may have been the single most difficult chapter to write. Many, many thanks to cecelle and Lady Whitehart for helping me construct Malcolm's letter—I could not have gotten it right without them.

Hang in there. I know it's been a long time since we saw Severus, but he's in the next chapter. Indeed, the next chapter is all about him...

**

* * *

Chapter 58: Before It's Too Late**

_To:_  
_Miriam Snape  
__Knockturn Alley  
__London_

_My dear Mrs. Snape,_

_It was with the greatest distress that I learned of Severus' disappearance. Alas, I fear I have no better news for you. He has not returned to Hogwarts, wounded or otherwise, and the item you referred to is not here._

_I have confirmed that he neither is nor has been a patient at St. Mungo's. The apparent death of Isaac Connor, which you reported in your second letter, sheds but little light. Indeed, my hopes are as reduced by it as your own: if he had triumphed, he ought to have reappeared at once. Still, we must not abandon hope altogether._

_Be assured that I am employing every means at my disposal to locate your nephew. Do not—I repeat DO NOT—risk your own health in pursuit of this matter. You would do him no service by it. And if the worst has come to pass, your position must remain uncompromised. Use more caution now than ever._

_Albus Dumbledore_

All through the morning Mass, Sarah clutched the folded sheet of parchment in her pocket, a tangible focus for her prayers for Severus' safety. No...for his very life. Miriam and Cornelia had brought her to church with the conviction that, at worst, praying was better than worrying, and at best, it might do some good, if not to the missing man, then to the forlorn girl he had left behind.

The letter had arrived with the dawn's light. Miriam had been reading it with a taut expression when Sarah had stirred from her restless sleep. The message—despite the ostensible address—was clearly intended for Sarah. _Use more caution_, the headmaster had warned—a stinging criticism, even if it was a fair one. The very fact that Sarah would write to Dumbledore in this situation would make her loyalties plain.

Not that she needed to carry any further burdens of guilt with her this morning. Even last night's Dark magic—arguably the greater sin—paled in comparison to the simple, foolish act that had permitted Connor to take Severus from her. From that, she felt, there could be no absolution. And if she were forced, as the headmaster had hinted, to carry on Severus' work by herself, every groveling bow before the Dark Lord, every poison or harmful potion she had to make, every moment of horror she witnessed or took part in, would be a just punishment.

At any rate, whether her fate was deserved or not, there was nothing else she could do. The Dark Lord's interest in her would not cease, no matter what had happened to Severus. She might well be ordered now to take a place in the Dark Lord's entourage, keeping company with that horrible little man, Pettigrew, displayed like a trophy before the Death Eaters, forced to play in their game of hierarchical scrabbling just to stay alive. And that would be the least of it. Severus had always kept her shielded, as best he could. Now nothing stood between her and the fact that she was tangled in a terrible web, with flight or death as the only means of escape.

Was flight an option anymore? Such thoughts of her future—of her child's future—might drive her to it, even if it left Dumbledore's Order without a spy in the enemy camp. But what if Severus were not dead? Her heart leapt, half in hope, half in despair. Her departure, at this juncture, would reveal her as a traitor to the Dark Lord. And if Severus somehow still lived, he would face deep mistrust and severe punishment for his young wife's duplicity. He would likely—as he had long feared—be ordered to find her and to kill her.

No, she could not run from her troubles. Even the brief respites she had from her grief gave little real comfort. The chanted words of the priest, the kindly-meant chatter of Miriam and Cornelia as they took her home, the other members of Severus' family who hovered around her from moment to moment were like cotton wool around her mind: protective, and yet stifling.

* * *

"Tant Sawah!" Melanie rushed at her from the door. Flora and Martin slipped in behind their toddler.

Sarah let the little girl clamber up on what was left of her lap, even though the burden in her arms only made the weight on her heart seem heavier. Severus might never see his own child.

After Jacob arrived, bringing a battered-looking table that was large enough that it had to be spelled through the doorway, the tiny flat was much, much too crowded. A flurry of activity erupted, as were chairs carried in. Baskets were brought in as well—one was already on Flora's arm, and others appeared after Miriam and Cornelia nipped out for a minute. Almost before Sarah could realize or object, a family luncheon was being held in her kitchen.

What Severus would have thought of this invasion of his household, Sarah could only guess. The talk was forcedly cheerful, as if everyone had agreed that Her Spirits Must Be Kept Up. But imagining the expression on Severus' face, if he should suddenly walk in, was far more cheering, even if it also brought tears to her eyes.

She had no appetite, although she poked and picked at her food to prevent them from fretting over her. She had spent most of her life protected from excessive attention, and such a concentrated outpouring of concern was almost overwhelming. What had been comforting at first was beginning to chafe. This great clamor in what had always been a quiet and private space made her painfully aware of the utter lack of privacy—physical, mental, or emotional—that she had endured for the past two days. She loved the people in this room...but she wished right now that she could simply order them out.

When Nick started talking about Quidditch at just the same moment when her abdomen, as it was doing with greater frequency, unexpectedly tightened again, Sarah could not bear the situation any longer. She retreated to the bedroom, sick at the thought she might have offended them all, but not sorry for going. It was only a short time before Miriam, predictably, opened the door Sarah had shut behind her.

"I just want to be alone for a while," Sarah pleaded, before the older woman could say anything.

"I thought you might have come to that point." Miriam's expression, so often taut with worry of late, softened into weary understanding. "I'll send them home as soon as I can manage it."

"Can you get _everyone_ to go?" Sarah's shoulders sagged. She was being horribly ungrateful, but she truly could not bear it anymore. "Could...could _you_ go? And Cornelia? I just need to be by myself for a while."

Miriam frowned slightly, studying her with sharp eyes, her hands twitching slightly as if she felt the impulse to check on the child again, although she had done so just a few hours ago. Her mouth tightened as she seemed to weigh the benefits and dangers of Sarah's request. But finally she nodded. "Use a ward I can break, if need be. I'll set someone to watching outside—you've only to shout out the window for help."

"Thank you," Sarah said. It was heartfelt, although it irked her a little to feel that she was still being guarded. At least it would be from afar, even if was only across the street. A sensible precaution, she had to admit. Not that Devin or Nick or Jacob were likely to actually try to rescue her—not if it were Death Eaters who showed up at her door to take her to the Dark Lord for questioning.

* * *

It seemed to Sarah as if she had lain there for more than an hour before the sounds from the other room faded to those of just one person. Miriam opened the bedroom door again.

"If you want to keep still, I'll set the ward from the outside," she suggested.

Sarah nodded. "Thank you," she repeated.

"I know, cherub. I know."

The footsteps faded across the outer room, the door there clicked shut, and Miriam's voice spoke sharply and quickly, raising the wards. Then silence—or as much of it as they ever had in the flat. But the world was at bay. That, for now, was all that mattered.

In the silence, it was almost possible to pretend that the last two days had never happened. That Severus would soon arrive back from Hogwarts, and life would go on as they had planned. But it would not. He would not. He already had come back. And gone away again. _To his death?_

Sarah let herself cry, as she had not cried since that first night. But it did not last as long. Now, without Miriam or Cornelia dampening her every movement, she could _do_ something for herself, and she felt compelled to do it while she had the chance.

She looked first for the safe box. It must be here, somewhere. But even painful scrabbling on her knees to look under the bed and inside the back of the wardrobe yielded no better result than the others' searches. Cornelia had already prodded all the stones of the fireplace, looking in the one spot toward which Severus might have been pointing with his eyes; she had found nothing, but that did not prevent Sarah from running her hands over the stones again, feeling for a trigger or a loose stone. Which wasn't there.

She pressed on into the kitchen area, but the cupboards offered up nothing more than the scrambled results of Cornelia's attempt to straighten up the flat. Frustrated at her inability to find the one thing Severus had asked her to, Sarah began rearranging the remaining ingredients, placing jars back where they belonged. Every jar that should have been there left its gap in her heart as well as in the cupboard; it was her own fault—if she had not opened that door, no ingredients would be missing. Nor would Severus.

Could she replace everything? Did she have enough in her Gringotts vault now? Would her solicitor consider this a reasonable need, and grant her more?

Was it reasonable to feel that if she could return the potions stores to normal, Severus would come back, too?

She could begin, at least. She drew out a slip of parchment and began making a list of all the things that needed to be replaced. She wouldn't dare to go to any of the apothecary shops in Knockturn without Miriam at her elbow, but out in Diagon... _Although_, she realized, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, _I would have to get past my guard to go anywhere_.

Discouraged, she set the list aside. With a shopping trip out of the question—it was, she realized abruptly, Sunday at any rate—she went on tidying, arranging things to her own satisfaction, not Cornelia's. It seemed ungrateful to be annoyed. But Sarah wanted things as they had always been.

When she finished straightening the cupboards, she went back in the bedroom and started on her trunk. The clothing had been unpacked only gradually, as she wore something from the trunk, then put it away in the wardrobe. With her school clothes obsolete, and so many things no longer fitting at all, there had been no reason yet to take them out. But once the baby came, she would need those things again. She might as well deal with them now as later.

She set her school clothes aside—they might bring a few Knuts at a secondhand shop. She put the ordinary clothes in another pile on the bed; they could be put away in the wardrobe. But then she began finding other things. Her old white nightgown with the hem ripped off. The poppet. When she pulled out a decrepit pair of knickers, a tiny vial tumbled out. All the evidence of her relationship with Severus Snape.

There was one more thing—a bottle of ink. She had moved it from her bookbag to her trunk after she had returned from her uncle's house, determined that she wouldn't need to communicate by that means ever again. She picked it up now, startled by the realization that she might have had the means of contacting Severus that she had denied to Connor, startled by hope that... But no. She did not know where Severus had hidden this bottle's mate—probably still at Hogwarts—but it was certain that he would not have carried it on his person. Not after they had long since ceased to use it.

The black abyss that had been ever-present inside her these last two days, sometimes gaping wider, more often receding at the sound of her protectors' voices, opened suddenly into a terrible maw, a hole into which she must fall. She hunched over, feeling as if she were collapsing in upon herself.

She was not sure how she got up onto the bed. Only that it seemed better that she not sprawl on the floor. She lay there, with limbs made of lead, while an anguish such as she had never known poured through her soul. As horrible as she had felt at her parents' deaths, that grief had been nothing like this blinding, agonizing pain... She had been the cause of her lover's death. Probably. If only she knew whether he were dead or alive, instead of this helpless, endless waiting, teetering on the edge between hope and grief! But she had, unquestionably, been the cause of her aunt's death. She was responsible, in some sense, for her parents' deaths as well: if not for her...if she had been less willing to be her father's beloved daughter, her mother might never have left him...might never have betrayed him to the Aurors...would never have gotten that horrible note, along with that terrible bottle of poison she had used to end her life. Sarah should have taken it and hid it...should have told Aunt Portia about it...should never have gone to Hogwarts, leaving her mother without a reason to go on living.

_Do I have any reason to go on living now?_ Mired in guilt...trapped in the fond affection of a powerful madman...with worse unquestionably yet to come...

_The baby_, answered a tiny, desperate voice of reason, amidst all the chaos of her thoughts. _Severus's son_.

_What world would I deliver him into?_ the dark unreason of her thoughts asked. _I have made him a pawn of the Dark Lord. He might well grow up wanting to serve the darkness of his own free will. Better to die with me, unborn, than that_.

Better to die...that was all the sum of it: what the agony demanded...what the inner abyss into which she was endlessly falling both threatened as its torture and promised as her deliverance.

_Dear God, is this how my mother felt?_

With some tiny sliver of good sense, she knew it was a cheat. If the soul was immortal, death would not put an end to her pain. And she had no poison in her hand, and no strength of will to move from where she lay, not even to rise and find one. But if she had...

Would she drink it? Truly? She had drunk the potion Severus had given her that one night, believing it might be her death, even if she had hoped it would not. And she had felt only numbness inside, then, not this agony...

How could her mother _not_ have drunk it, sooner or later? With her husband's last words before her eyes, her husband's last gift at hand?

_My own dear Julia (and most dear to me you have proven indeed!),_

_You must know that, by the time you read this, it will be far too late to reconsider your choices. But I know you—and you will feel in your soul what you have done, if you do not already. And to think that you considered my hands unclean!_

_Consider this: all too soon, Sarah will grow old enough to force you to explain yourself. What will you feel then, when she sees your weak, treacherous and deceitful nature? What will you feel when you look into her eyes and see her hatred of you? Never doubt it will be there, Julia. In trying to keep her from me, you have given her back to me already. _

_I can imagine your regret, eating at you like a canker. I can imagine how painful it must be to live, Julia, even to want to live, knowing the way you have betrayed the man to whom you swore your life and loyalty. The father of your child. Although you must see now that she would better off an orphan indeed than to have a mother such as you._

_I will be kinder than you have been, and grant you a means to end your pain. Keep this vial close by you, for I know, in time, you will want it. I do not promise it will be painless or quick. But for what you have done to me, done to us, done to our child, it is far better than you deserve._

Sarah had sat reading it over and over, unbelieving, because the man who had written it and the woman for whom it was intended were not the parents she knew. When her mother had come in and snatched the note out of her hand, then burst into tears as she read it, Sarah had panicked, desperate both to reassure and to be reassured. And her mother had reassured her—at what cost to herself Sarah had only vaguely understood, then.

She understood it better, now. If her mother had felt this way from the moment she had read the letter, or at least from the moment she had learned of Malcolm's death...

_But_, Sarah thought, an older, angrier pain reasserting itself, _she ought not to have made it come true!_ Sarah had not turned against her mother, the way her father had predicted. And if Julia Darkglass had lived, would Sarah ever have taken that first fatalistic step into this hazardous relationship? A relationship that had led her into much the same place as she would have ended up if her father's fondest and most terrible hopes for his daughter had come true.

Borne up by a flood from some unexpected well of strength or fountain of sanity, Sarah found herself on solid ground again, instead of falling into that endless abyss of pain. She had told Severus over and over that she was not her mother, fearing all the while that the similarity was true. But she knew now that it was not. Not, she had to confess, that the fatal impulse was gone. But she would not succumb to it out of a sense of guilt or shame, as her mother had. Her father had chosen death—even if it had not been by his own hand—for another reason, preferring it to living on terms he found intolerable. And Sarah's own situation was...miserable, yes...terrifying. But _intolerable?_ Was it, while it was still possible, however remotely, that Severus was alive? Or while she still had the power to help prevent the one thing that she would have found truly intolerable: to live without hope under the Dark Lord's pitiless and immortal reign?

Slowly, strength came back to Sarah's limbs. But action was of no use. She needed to _think_, damn it! How could Connor be dead, but Severus still missing? They had already considered the obvious answer—that Severus had been seriously injured or killed in the duel. It was not entirely unheard of for duels to end in the death of both wizards. But that was an answer without hope. Even if Severus were simply injured, if it was serious enough to prevent him from contacting Professor Dumbledore, then the chances of finding him in time to save his life were vanishingly small. Where would Connor have taken Severus?

How, for that matter, had he managed to create that set of Portkeys? Connor was hardly a well-trained wizard. He had been a child of Knockturn Alley, learning—catch-as-catch-can—whatever bits of useful magic he could pick up. Portkeys, however, were both a sophisticated form of magic—an upper N.E.W.T.-level Charm that not everyone could master—and also of limited use: anyone who could Apparate—as Connor clearly could—would not need one. Of course, Connor might have got the Portkeys from someone else...more likely extorted than purchased, since the man appeared to be poorer than they were.

Unless...the thought jolted into Sarah's mind...unless someone else were involved _willingly_. Someone who had reason to want Severus dead.

"_I'm not finished with you!"_ Bella had said that, in this very flat. Bella—whose plans for Sarah had been ruined, whose place at the Dark Lord's side had been diminished; she was not the sort to own up to her own failures in those things: she would lay the blame squarely at Severus' feet. And with the Dark Lord's anger ready to fall upon anyone who interfered with his most valuable spy, who could blame Bella for preferring to use an agent to do her dirty work.

"_Who said I was going to hurt him personally?" _Sarah had tried to get the sound of Connor's hateful voice out of her mind. And she had assumed, at the time he'd said it, that he meant to destroy Severus's reputation and career. But if Bella had hired him... _"You think I give a fig for your money, now?" _No, he would not—not if he had been promised a generous payment by someone else. Someone who would want very much to hurt Severus for herself.

Sarah shuddered, sitting up in a sudden panic. If Severus had been at Bella's mercy for two days... And she would never let him live, in the end—not with the Dark Lord's certain displeasure hanging over her head, should he ever hear of the matter. But Bella had made sure there would be no reason for suspicion to ever fall upon her. Severus had disappeared after leaving to duel with a known childhood enemy—even Sarah would have to corroborate that. And the agent Bella had used—that very same childhood enemy...

Was _dead_. Connor could never demand payment or threaten blackmail or tell a dangerous and possibly valuable tale to his Master.

Sarah scrambled to her feet. If there was to be any hope of Severus' survival, she would have to act quickly.

Except—she realized, stopping short—she had no idea where Bellatrix might be. She sank back down on the edge of the bed with a stunned whimper. Even if she told Dumbledore who Severus's captor was, they were no closer to finding him than before.

Only one person, in fact, could find Bella, or call her to account. Sarah's blood ran cold. The Dark Lord, who could summon the woman by means of her Dark Mark, who could get the truth from her by Legilimency or torture.

It was a terrible thing to actually want to speak with the Dark Lord, although Sarah would have done it in a moment, for Severus' sake. But she had no means of seeking him out; Severus had been her only link. She had last seen the Dark Lord at Notting Chase, but there was no reason to think he would have remained there. He moved frequently. And after Fiona's displeasing behavior, he would likely have decided that the Notts were unworthy even to play his hosts. Only a Death Eater, through the magic imbued in the Dark Mark, would be able to Apparate to him, wherever he now was, to carry her message. And whom among the Death Eaters, apart from Severus, could she trust?

There was only one possible answer: Chester. He had no reason to love Severus, but he might still have enough affection for his cousin to carry her humble request for an audience to the Dark Lord. As soon as the thought formed, she was in motion. She pulled out the wand Miriam had brought to her last night—nothing so good as her own, but better than nothing at all—and lifted the block on the Floo. She felt a twinge of fear for her baby, in spite of Fiona's Unbreakable Vow, but she saw no other choice. She took a pinch of Floo Powder, noting as she did so that there was hardly any left in the tin; they had been running low already, and Connor had probably knocked it over in his rampage. But she could do nothing about that now. She cast the pinchful down, and said distinctly, "Notting Chase."

There was a flurry of green flame, and the usual whooshing sensation of Floo travel, but a moment later, Sarah found herself coughing at the churned-up ash on her own hearth.

_What went wrong?_ Could she possibly have made a mistake lifting the ward with the unfamiliar wand? Or was the remaining Floo Powder contaminated? But then, nothing should have happened at all. It took a moment more for Sarah to realize it: the Floo connection at Notting Chase had been completely blocked, with not even the usual Fire Call opening enabled.

_Why on earth...? _

Then, suddenly, it all came clear—the truth glimpsed in a horrible moment, as if illuminated by a flash of lightning. Bella, fugitive that she was, had no place she could call her own. No place that would afford her the privacy that would be necessary in order to make Severus Snape disappear painfully from the face of the earth. There were, admittedly, other possibilities—abandoned buildings, caves—where Bellatrix might hold and torture a captive. But Bella was a woman of Sarah's own class, and the inherent squalor of such a place would not appeal to her nearly so much as a manor house, with its well-designed dungeons, so convenient to the refinement of the drawing room.

Bellatrix _might_ be able to bully her sister Narcissa into permitting her to use her home for the purpose. But Narcissa might also be wary of angering the Dark Lord any further. And she probably still harbored some hope that Severus would protect Draco at school. Her fear for her son was so intense, and Bella's sympathy for her so slight, Narcissa might even betray her sister to the Dark Lord, if she felt it would soften his stance toward Draco.

But there was one person in perfect sympathy with Bella about Severus Snape. A person who was already aware of Connor's hatred for the man. A person who probably knew how to contact Connor, and who might have offered to make an old debt good if he provided his assistance in the plan. A person—and Sarah remembered, with a chill, how curious it had seemed that Connor had refrained so carefully from hurting her—yes, a person who would have very good reason to insist strongly that the man do nothing that might harm the child that she had made an Unbreakable Vow to protect.

Fiona Nott.

Was, then, Bellatrix even a part of the plot? Whether or not she was hardly seemed to matter now. Not now that Sarah felt sure that she knew where Severus had been taken. Where he was being held, at this very moment, if he had not already been killed.

The question of what to do next left Sarah stymied for a moment. Notting Chase, as she had reason to know for herself, was virtually unassailable. At least by a young and heavily pregnant woman using a low-quality wand. Possibly even by a small knot of men from Knockturn Alley, assuming that Caius or his step-sons would be willing to attack the home of a known Death Eater, even for Severus' sake.

Professor Dumbledore? Surely he had good reason to rally every means at his disposal to rescue one of his teachers. But Sarah did not think she had time to contact the headmaster by owl—every lost minute might make a difference for Severus. She knew that it was impossible to Floo into the school, due to the wards. Even Fire Calls (according to the Weasley twins, who always seemed to know more about such things than they should) were theoretically limited to those originating inside the school—much to the relief, no doubt, of students with excessively fussy parents. But it did not help her.

Out of desperation, she raised her wand. She had heard Severus speak the incantation. Perhaps concentrating on sending the magical ghost bird with the desired message would be enough. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Nothing happened. Not that she had really expected it to. But there was nary so much as a flicker from her wand.

_What now?_ she thought, in rising panic.

She had asked Severus for options once, for this very kind of situation. What had he said? The Auror Office—the very place she needed help from anyway, in order to breach the spells that protected Notting Chase. But even if the office was manned over the weekend, she was sure that a lot of questions would be asked before the poor sod who had pulled that duty would call in reinforcements. Questions that might be very difficult to answer.

As a last resort, Severus had told her, she could go to the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. What kind of assistance would be forthcoming, he had never indicated. His tone, when he had spoken of it, had suggested it was truly the very last place she might want to try to get help. Even if she Floo'ed there directly, there was no promise of the necessary speed to help Severus in time. Was there no other solution—one less desperate?

_Oh...yes!_ She knew two Order members by name, one of them an Auror. And it was very possible—considering that they had been asked to come help transport Sarah from the train station—that they lived here in London. Where, she didn't know. But if she could contact them, they would have the power to rally the necessary aid—no questions asked—more quickly than anyone else.

Sarah knelt awkwardly in front of the grate. Fire Calling was safer than trying to actually Floo to an unknown address. And all she had to go on was a name. And a tiny pinch of Floo Powder, almost the last in the tin.

Green flames flared up as she activated the Floo. Then she stuck her head inside and said, as clearly as possible, "Remus Lupin's flat."

Nothing. Not even a spinning sensation, and the flames died as she withdrew from the fireplace. For a terrible moment, Sarah had to wonder again—whether had she used enough Floo Powder, whether the Floo was working at all, whether she had lost her magic, whether..._no!_ she stopped herself. No, it was entirely possible that Professor Lupin's hearth wasn't connected to the Floo Network. He was, after all, a werewolf. And there were fees for a Floo connection, which he could likely not afford.

Well then, what about the Auror? But what was her name...Sarah had made a point of trying to remember it...somebody Tonks? Severus had said her first name...some sort of nature spirit name. He had said it quite disdainfully... Nymph? Close, but there was more to it: it was longer than that. Nymphia? No...Sarah tried to hear Severus's voice in her head..._Nymphadora!_ Yes! She hoped. There was only one scant pinch of Floo Powder left, scraped from the corners of the tin. But it was the only chance she had.

"Nymphadora Tonks' flat!"

This time, the Floo came to life around her, spinning her head past dozens of wizarding hearths before she finally came to a stop. She found herself looking out on a flat nearly as small and decrepit as their own. No one was in sight.

"Tonks!" Sarah called. She craned her neck uncomfortably; it felt as if she were wearing a flaming collar. When there was no answer, she said, louder, "Nymphadora Tonks?"

Nothing.

Where would a young Auror be on a Sunday afternoon?

_Anywhere_, Sarah thought, despair surging through her again. Out for a stroll, or shagging Professor Lupin in his flat...well, perhaps not that; they had been quarrelling when she last saw them. There would be no help here.

If she could step through, she might be able to leave Tonks a note. Then she could try contacting the Auror Office from Tonks' hearth. And after that, she could send an owl to Professor Dumbledore, but with at least some hope that Tonks would come home soon enough to contact him long before an owl could get there. However, when Sarah tried to force the rest of her body out of the Floo, the green flames held her tight. Open to Fire Calls only, then.

Could she, Sarah wondered, carry a note in her teeth and drop it on Tonks' hearth? Well, maybe, if she could beg or borrow enough Floo Powder for another call. Although it was dubious that Tonks would find such a note, lying on the floor like that. She'd had time to examine the Auror's flat more closely in the past minute, and had come to the conclusion that it wasn't that the flat was run-down—it actually seemed to be newer and in better condition than theirs was, if no bigger. But the young woman was profoundly untidy—clothes were strewn across the sofa, newspapers and post scattered across the floor, and the remnants of previous meals ossifying on plates stacked in the sink.

Sarah was about to give up and draw back, steeling herself for the effort that would be involved in trying her dubious note plan, when the door of the flat rattled. The locks clicked, and then it opened. Sarah prepared herself to retreat, unseen, if this turned out somehow not to be Tonks' flat. But the Auror came in with an armload of bags.

"Tonks!" Sarah said.

Tonks stumbled and lost hold of one of the bags. Clothing spilled out as it hit the floor.

"You scared me half to death!" Tonks said. Then she got a closer look at the face in her fireplace. "_Sarah?_"

"Severus is in trouble," Sarah blurted out. "I'm sorry I startled—"

"Yes, I know," Tonks overrode her. "Professor Dumbledore had me investigating Connor's record all day yesterday, trying to figure out where he might go. If I hadn't needed clean clothes for work tomorrow—"

"But I know where he is," Sarah interrupted breathlessly. "At least I think so."

"_What?_" Tonks dropped the other bags on the sofa and rushed to the fireplace.

"That was why Connor didn't hurt me. Fiona had sworn an Unbreakable Vow and—"

"Wait. Start over. _Where_ is Snape?"

"At Notting Chase!" Sarah felt tears welling up in her eyes; she could not tell all she needed to fast enough, and they might be torturing Severus to death even now. "Frankin Nott's manor, in Northumberland."

"Right," Tonks said firmly. She turned, her brows furrowing, and said, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Much to Sarah's surprise, the ghostly form that took shape from the end of the woman's wand was not a bird at all. It seemed to be a dog of some kind. It sprang away, melting through the wall of the flat. How long, Sarah wondered, would it take to reach Professor Dumbledore?

"Now, how'd you find this out?" Tonks asked. "Ransom note?"

"No, that's what I was trying to tell you before." Sarah's knees and back were hurting fiercely, and the prospect of a long conversation like this was distressing. If her belly tightened now... "Connor didn't hurt me, although he could have. It would have been like him to have. But if my aunt hired him, then she couldn't let him do that; she'd promised not to hurt my baby."

"She made an Unbreakable Vow?" The young woman's brow furrowed again, and she frowned.

"The Dark Lord made her do it. He's going to take my baby away." The words tumbled out without Sarah's intention, and she found that tears—which she had no means of wiping away—were leaking down her cheeks. "He's going to give him to my cousins, even though my aunt despises Severus."

"And I thought _I_ had it bad," Tonks said, with a grimace. "Look, I've set things in motion, but if we've got to attack the home of a Death Eater, we're going to need to know a lot more. Potential defenses, traps. At minimum, some idea of the floor plan—"

"There isn't time!" Sarah protested. "I think Bellatrix Lestrange may be involved. She warned us that she'd get even."

Tonks' face blanched. "I know all about Bellatrix. But what I was about to suggest is for you to tell me all you know about this place. You've been there, I 'spose?"

"Yes, but I can't kneel here much longer like this." Sarah felt the beginnings of tightness in her womb, although she did her best to ignore it. "And I couldn't draw any pictures or maps."

"No, I didn't mean that. Can you Apparate over here?" Tonks began pacing back and forth in a small area of the floor that she had kicked clear.

"No. That's why you had to bring me from King's Cross. Don't you remember?" Sarah asked, exasperated.

"Oh...uh, yeah. Well, that's a problem."

"Just lift the main block on the Floo?" Sarah suggested impatiently, almost bearably uncomfortable, from her knees to her neck.

"Can't," Tonks said. "Security precautions for all Aurors. No fully open Floo connections at any time. Magical Law Enforcement put it there, not me. And I live in a Muggle part of London, so there's no other connected Floos nearby."

"Can you come _here?_" Sarah asked.

"Not without having a peek through your Floo. Apparating someplace you've never seen is ruddy dangerous."

"Well, then!" Sarah pulled her head back, until all of her was kneeling dizzily and painfully on her own hearth. The green flames died. It took longer than Sarah expected for them to flare again. Tonks' heart-shaped face emerged.

"Got a message back from the headmaster, and an assembly point for the rescue party. All we need now is your information."

"Good." Sarah felt relief flooding through her, so sweet it was nearly painful. "I'll tell you everything I know."

"Right," Tonks said, craning her neck this way and that. "Now, what about anti-Apparition wards?"

"Oh, shit!" Sarah burst out, hope turning to ashes in her mouth. "You can't Apparate into the flat—Severus set _that_ ward, and I don't know how to lift it."

"Here," Tonks said, sounding just as frustrated. "You meet me in the Leaky Cauldron in five minutes." Her head vanished before Sarah could say another word.

Sarah picked up the tin of Floo Powder in despair. She tilted it, knocked on one side. A few grains of silvery powder collected together, but not enough. She tipped the grains out onto her palm and blew them into the fireplace. A few green sparks flared and died.

_Now what?_

She could hardly run door to door, in this house, asking her neighbors for Floo Powder. Like as not, few of them would even have any. She dragged herself up and hustled to the window. Devin was leaning against the building opposite with his eyes closed.

"Devin!" Sarah shouted.

The man straightened with a start.

"What you need?" he called back, sounding both dazed and worried.

"I need Floo Powder!"

Devin looked up at her dubiously. "You okay?"

"Yes, but I need Floo Powder right away!" The panic in her voice wasn't helping; Devin was as likely to think she'd lost her mind.

"I'll bring Mum," he said, his expression and tone of voice confirming her assessment. He turned and broke into a sprint toward his mother's. Chances were he would bring a worried Miriam back without any Floo Powder at all. Sarah fretted. Maybe she should just go over to the Snapes' herself—Caius be damned—and use the Floo there. Although that was assuming they had a working Floo connection, which, in point of fact, she did not know. And how long would it take to find out? Devin was already out of easy earshot, or she could ask him.

How long would Tonks wait? How long could the rescue effort afford to be delayed? Sarah might be able to waddle all the way out to the front of Diagon Alley in something not long over five minutes, if she were forced to resort to going on foot. _If _she could get through the length of Knockturn Alley unaccosted. But maybe it would better to try that than to depend on time-consuming possibilities and the risk that Miriam would assume, at least for a few minutes, that Sarah had simply snapped under the pressure and was babbling nonsense.

Sarah still had the presence of mind to grab her veil; she was all too likely to be recognized, and she could not afford to stop for a conversation. And even the Illusion Belt was hard-put to disguise the awkwardness of her gait, now. She wrapped the veil around her head and shoulders like a shawl, as she slipped out of the flat and down the stairs.

**

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A/N:** Are you hopeful now? ;)

I've had to deal with a lot of complications with the Floo system that I discovered as I researched this chapter. We know from HBP that Hogwarts typically does not have an incoming Floo connection—the Ministry had to authorize one to get the students back to school safely after Christmas in HBP. And yet Sirius manages to Fire Call Harry at school (though we've never seen anyone else do that). And Harry Fire Calls out more than once. From everything we've seen, Fire Calling is just Floo-ing Lite. So what I've assumed for the purposes of this story is that it's possible to allow Fire Calls, but prevent people from actually coming/going all the way _through_ the Floo. I've also assumed that there must be ways of Fire Calling into Hogwarts, but that the connection is probably the equivalent of "password protected" (and that Sirius is either a good "hacker" or Dumbledore gave him the secret). I've also assumed that it's possible for the owner of a given hearth to set their own limitations on its use, over and above whatever the Floo office sets when they make a connection. (It wouldn't be very nice, I think, to have what amounts to an open door in your house that you can't close without application to the government.)

The next chapter is from Severus's PoV. Can't you just wait:)


	60. Ch 59: Why, You Ask, Was I Bound

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** It's all J. K. Rowling's.

**A/N:** Many, many thanks to all my reviewers! You are great!

The notification system has been wonky lately, so if you haven't read chapters 55 - 58, you might want to do that before going on.

For the first time since the Prologue, we are actually going into Snape's PoV. It wasn't easy for me to write, so I give great thanks again for Lady Whitehart, who writes Snape very well indeed in her own stories, and who was my guide and inspiration as I worked through this. (She's written several ficlets involving sneak peeks at Snape's PoV during various parts of this story. You might want to have a look at them.)

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Chapter 59: Why, You Ask, Was I Bound and Chained?**

Severus Snape opened his eyes. The pain that had been pinching him awake took on new intensity as his conscious mind revived enough to process both the source and the situation.

His hands were drawn up against the wall above his head, and the iron was digging into his wrists again. Even as he came fully awake, the chains tightened another notch, threatening to dislocate his shoulders if he did not rise to his feet, or at least to his knees. The chains were spelled to grow slowly looser or tighter over a period of time. The most probable reason for the device was to increase the prisoner's pain—his arms and hands would have mercifully lost much of their feeling had they remained pinned continuously over his head. But the near-constant demand for changes in position had another effect: it prevented the unfortunate captive from resting for longer than the loosest part of the chain's cycle—perhaps an hour at most.

How many such hours had passed, he no longer knew.

He had never had a chance. The thought still made him angry. The spell he had prepared to strike Connor with, the moment they reached their destination, had scarcely left his lips when he was struck from behind with a full Body-Bind. The caster of the spell—Bellatrix, he knew immediately from the laughter—had let him fall forward on his face. He had had his head turned just enough to prevent his nose from being broken, but his cheek had hit the rough stone floor of the dungeon with sufficient force to tear the skin open, not to mention the resulting bruises; his eye was swollen nearly shut, and it was impossible to lie comfortably on that side. Not that comfort of any kind was an option, after all they'd done to him so far—only varying degrees of pain.

And he understood, only too well, that pain was the absolute definer of his life now. As soon as it stopped pleasing them to hurt him, he would be dead.

Connor was dead already. Bella had disposed of him the moment he'd started demanding his payment—the payment that Nott had promised and Fiona had denied him: five-hundred Galleons and a recommendation to the Dark Lord for his advancement. The response was no more than Connor deserved for being such a fool as to trust Fiona twice, but Severus had found himself wincing inwardly at the sound of the man's body hitting the floor all the same. That death, he knew, was merely a forerunner of his own.

The only remaining question was how long Severus would be allowed to live before his continuing existence became too much of a threat to the women upstairs. If it were Bella alone who had kidnapped him, he suspected he would be dead already. The woman had more to lose than Fiona—any hope of Bella's return to the Dark Lord's favor would vanish in an instant if her involvement in Severus's disappearance became known.

Unless, of course, she had some way of proving him a traitor. But he did not intend to give her that. Nor was the Dark Lord likely to simply accept her word that Severus had confessed under torture. Most men would eventually say anything, whether it was true or not, to make the pain stop; more than once, Severus had seen it become a game—forcing the victim to confess to the most outrageous and degrading lies before being allowed the dubious mercy of death. But the Dark Lord had more reliable means for extracting the truth. Torture was typically reserved as a punishment, or to force a humiliating confession of something of which he was already sure. No, the only hope Bella had on that count was to take the risk of bringing Severus face to face with the Dark Lord, on the dangerous supposition that she had broken him sufficiently to prevent him from hiding his traitorous nature any longer.

Apparently it was a risk she had decided not to take. Not yet, at least. It might even be that, with his death—and, thereby, an end to his treachery—assured, the question of his loyalties no longer mattered to her. Thus far Bella had been bent only upon one thing: punishing him for his role in her fall. And for defying her.

The chains clinked another link tighter, and Severus tried, gingerly, to shift onto his knees. But the effort sent a jolt of agony through his groin, and a sharp cry escaped his lips. Severus curled over involuntarily, more pain tearing at his shoulders and wrists, the remainder of his breath hissing out in a string of ineffectual curses. _Damned women!_

Bella had begun it—it was the first thing she had done after they had bound him in this cell, with the chains at their tautest. Whether it was due to her perverse curiosity—a desire to sample the virility that had compelled Sarah's attachment to him—or whether Bella had intended only to mock him once she had aroused him, she had struck him with the Imperius Curse, then ordered him to couple with her. There had been a time, in their youth, when he would have taken delight in raping Bellatrix Black, highborn bitch that she was. But not now—not after all that had happened in the intervening years, not with the knowledge that Bella fully intended, sooner or later, to kill him. In his disgust, it had taken scarcely any effort to throw off the spell.

But she had approached him in the conviction that she had the upper hand. He had waited until she was close enough before spitting into her face. Then, as she stepped back in fury, he had sent a double-footed kick into her gut. When she had recovered enough to gasp out "_Crucio!_" she had used a very pointed aim to make him regret his resistance.

At least the effects of Crucio faded within a short time, from the body, if not from the mind. And fortunately—if anything in his situation could be called good fortune—it was Bella's favorite spell. Despite her temporary urge to make him wish he were a eunuch, that particular target could only entertain her for a limited amount of time...chiefly because she could not continue for very long before he mercifully passed out.

It was Fiona Nott who had produced the lasting pain that made every shift in position a torture of its own. Whether she lacked the grit to perform an Unforgivable Curse, or whether she simply had no wish, as an ostensibly law-abiding witch, to weigh down her wand with such incriminating evidence, she had selected other spells to inflict Severus with.

"_What made you think you were worthy to so much as touch my niece? You're nothing but a bit of Knockturn Alley trash that Lucius thought could be useful. You have no right think yourself our equal! You had no right to pour your filthy bastard seed into one of us!" She raised her wand. "Vexus Orchidus!"_

It was not an unusual spell—among the boys at Hogwarts, it had been called "the Nutcracker," and had been used judiciously to inflict embarrassing pain in situations where the chances of being caught were minimal. Fiona, however, used it viciously and without compunction. And unlike Crucio, it had a lasting physical effect. Hence his inability to move without screaming.

_Damned women!_

And Sarah— _This is all her fault!_ his mind raged. He saw no chance that he would ever leave this cell alive, but if he did... Throw her out? Take the child from her first and then throw her out? Regardless of her position of favor with the Dark Lord?

Beat her, then? Flay her with his tongue—oh, he would do that at least! Make her regret, every moment of her life, that she had...

But every time his thoughts tended in that direction, a picture of her face, as he had last seen her, swam before his eyes: a pale and terrified girl. A _girl, _for all that her belly was swollen with his child. A girl whom he had left all alone in the flat, neglecting his own earlier level of precautions, ignoring even the simple warnings the benighted Ministry had given. And Connor had taken that opportunity to deceive her.

And now she would be left a widow before she turned nineteen. A widow with a child, presumably yet unborn.

_She deserves it, for her foolishness! _But he could not be sure that the tears that came suddenly to his eyes were tears of pain.

* * *

He awoke later from some formless nightmare at the sound of someone approaching. Usually their little "visits" were timed to coincide with the tightest part of the chains' cycle. It was as satisfying a thought as the situation permitted that, even with him wandless and chained, they feared him too much to risk any chance of his getting his hands on them. 

But these sounds were stealthy. Someone was sneaking towards the cell door. Severus felt a pang of hope shoot through his chest. Could Sarah have somehow realized what had happened? But then, how had his rescuer breached the wards of Notting Chase without raising an alarm?

The bolt was being withdrawn with painful slowness. Finally, the door swung open, just far enough to reveal a young man's face, weirdly illuminated by wandlight, but recognizable. He was not, perhaps, the last person that Severus had expected to see. Indeed, his presence here was entirely reasonable...even obvious. And yet Severus took a sharp inward breath. The youth was one of his own Slytherin students: Theodore Nott.

"My God," Theodore whispered harshly. "Professor _Snape?_" He began to rush toward the man on the floor, then stopped, as if fearing the possibility of some magical wards on the prisoner that could as easily harm a visitor.

"It would appear I will not be teaching Potions this term," Severus gasped out, grimacing.

"How...why...? I knew Mother had someone down here but..." Theodore shook his head, as if unable to believe what he was seeing. "Why would she do this to _you?_"

It was far too long a story, and one, in any case, that Severus could not afford for the boy to hear. "I seem to have crossed her." As he attempted to speak normally, he found that his throat was raw, his voice harsh.

"She isn't...keeping you here for...for the Dark Lord?" Theodore whispered, his eyes widening. Not a surprising supposition, with Bellatrix in residence.

"No," Severus croaked. "He would be very displeased if he knew." It was difficult to say more than a few words at a time. "Your mother and Bellatrix have a private...vendetta." At the last word, the roughness in his throat choked him. He tried to control the spasm of coughing that threatened, but the effort rattled his body and turned his coughs into screams.

When Severus was able to look up again, he saw Theodore with his wand raised, as if attempting to think of a spell that could help. But the boy's narrow face was slack and pale, and there was panic in his eyes.

"I just wanted to see who was down here. Not..."

The once-bright flare of hope within Severus began coalescing into a small, dark knot of despair. Theodore was a loner, quiet, never one to join up with the cliques that formed within Slytherin House. He was not a coward, and he was well able to hold his own. But as the youngest member of a family that had, over the years, suffered from the effects of displeasing the Dark Lord, Theodore was not eager to expose himself to undue attention from anyone. The chances that the boy would act in defiance of his mother were, Severus realized angrily, very small indeed.

"Let me go," Severus ordered hoarsely, knowing his only hope might be that the boy's respect for him as his Head of House might override his cautious inaction.

"Is she doing this because of my father?" Theodore's expression tightened. "Did you have something to do with his being caught, the way Mrs. Lestrange says?"

"Bella...doesn't know...what she's talking about." Severus forced the words out carefully, trying to avoid another attack of coughing. "Malfoy's fault...her foolish brother-in-law." There was no friendship between Theodore and Draco, even if there was no open rivalry either.

"I can't believe my mother would do this without a reason." But the boy's voice shook, as if he had some doubts about his mother's good sense.

"It was...Bella's idea." And it might have been; she, at least, had been taking the lead from the moment he had been captured. Better to make the boy believe in his mother's relative innocence. "Your mother...can't afford...the Dark Lord's...anger."

"If I let you go, you might tell him! Mrs...Bella said you'd fooled him, taken a higher place with him than you deserved..."

Severus felt a surge of anger. The highborn arrogance in the boy's voice and manner was abruptly evident. And whatever carefully cultivated doubts Theodore may have had before about whether or not his Head of House was a Death Eater had been swept away.

"I have...no quarrel...with your mother," Severus lied, his teeth gritting. "The blame will...be laid...on Bella alone."

"I can't be sure of that. She's..."

"I'm what?" asked a smooth voice, from the direction of the door, and Severus felt a chill in his soul even colder than the stone floor of the dungeon. Bellatrix had come down the stairs, catlike, and now she seemed to ooze into the cell. "Severus, are you corrupting this young man's opinion of me?" She touched the boy's cheek with suggestive fondness. Theodore flinched slightly.

Before she could speak or act further, a clear sound of clattering footsteps was heard. The door was thrust open all the way, and Fiona stalked in.

"Bella, I told you never to come down here without..." She seemed to lose her breath as she took in her youngest son's presence, but she got it back quickly enough. "How dare you sneak down here, Theodore! Or did you bring him?" She eyed the other woman sharply.

"Certainly not," Bella replied. "I may have just prevented your son from rescuing his dear professor."

"I didn't..." the boy protested. "I didn't even know who was here. I just wanted to find out..."

"You'll find out what you're given permission to find out!" Fiona's expression hardened. "We have enough troubles in this family without you interfering in matters that do not concern you! Go to your room!"

"Just a moment," Bella said. "Perhaps young Theodore could do with a little demonstration." She raised an eyebrow at Fiona. "This younger generation is so soft. Goodness knows I've been trying with my nephew. But even your oldest, a grown man, doesn't have much stomach..."

"Chester can do what needs to be done!"

"You'd better hope so," Bella said. "Or the Dark Lord may decide to wash his hands of the Notts altogether."

"You have no room to speak," Fiona said angrily. Severus, who had been bracing for an assault, relaxed slightly, hoping that their quibbling might end without another session of torture. Theodore, however, made a move toward the door, sending his Head of House a pitying look.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bella snapped, spying him.

"I...Mother's right. I don't belong down here," Theodore said, half-sheepishly, half-defiantly.

Bella raised her wand, and Severus stiffened again, even though the tension cost him an advance on whatever pain she was about to inflict.

"I'll do it!" Fiona raised her own wand. "_Limaxus Vim!_"

Severus was surprised by the spell—a relatively simple, if unpleasant, vomiting hex. There was little enough in his stomach to come up. Fiona had ordered him to be given bread and water: an earnest, perhaps, of the fact that she intended his end to be slow as well as painful. The sudden filling of his empty belly was, disconcertingly, pleasant for a moment, despite his knowledge of what was to come: an irresistible gagging sensation that culminated in the painful heaving of his stomach and the disgorgement of a gray, slimy mass that he knew, even without examining it closely, was the body of a slug.

It would almost have been laughable, if not for the terrible, helpless urge to heave again...and again. Fiona had not simply released the spell; she kept her wand raised, exerting control over the strength and speed of the vomiting her hex was causing. Soon it became almost impossible to breathe, as the spasms of heaving came successively quicker. As the heaves shook him harder and harder, his whole body became involved, and the pain that resulted brought a scream with every disgorgement. Soon he was writhing on the floor in the slime, choking, his vision wavering from grey to black. Fiona, sensing perhaps that he was nearing unconsciousness, eased the spell. In the miserable silence that followed, Severus could dimly hear someone else choking, as if trying desperately not to vomit in response.

"Don't you dare!" Fiona said. "Or I'll make you do this yourself!"

"Perhaps he should," Bella put in. "He needs to practice sometime."

Another icy chill touched Severus. He had been subjected, himself, to Bella's hunger for corrupting others, and although he had hardly been an innocent when he came within the sphere of her influence, the memory was not a pleasant one. And while no youth could grow up in a Death Eater's household entirely unmarked, Theodore was less corrupted than some. Certainly he had never openly displayed the ruthless urges that were so common in Slytherin House. It had always seemed to Severus that if Theodore had an ambition, it was to survive the situation his father and grandfather had placed him in.

"It's up to me to decide what he needs!" Fiona said.

Bella snorted. "Do you lack the _will_, boy? Are you too _weak_ to do what needs to be done?"

Theodore mumbled.

"What did you say?"

"I said 'no,'" the boy hissed quietly. "But I don't understand the need."

Bella laughed. "Do you intend to ask the Dark Lord _why_ he's given you an order?"

An uncomfortable silence followed. Severus had recovered enough to look up, and the expression he saw on the boy's face was troubling. It was, he realized, the same kind of expression that Sarah had worn when he gave his own corrupting orders.

"What do I have to do to prove myself?" The boy's voice was just on the edge of trembling, but shot through with iron.

"Let's see what you can do with the Cruciatus Curse," Bella said contemplatively.

Fiona burst out, "You want him to risk—"

"What risk?" Bella scoffed. "Why should they bother with the wand of a boy still at school? And let me tell you something: that Potter brat tried to curse me that night at the Ministry. Do you think they've done anything to him?"

"As if they would!" Fiona said.

"He didn't have the resolve to do me any harm. I want to see what _you_ can do, _Teddy_."

The mocking note, twinned with the childish nickname, hardened the boy's face, and Severus felt a jolt of fear. He watched helplessly as Theodore Nott raised his wand.

"You have to mean it, you know," Bella said.

Ignoring her, the boy took a deep breath. For a moment, it seemed as if he met his teacher's gaze, pleading for forgiveness, but it passed too rapidly to be sure, and then, eyes blurred, Theodore cast the spell.

The pain was scarcely a tenth of what Bella could produce in her rage. But for a man already tortured, body and soul, unable to prevent what was happening to one of the children in his charge, it was enough to bring an unwilling sound to his lips.

"Again," Bella urged, breathless.

"_Crucio!_" The note of pain in Theodore's voice became physical pain for Severus, worse than before.

"Ah yes, that's better. Again."

"That's _enough!_" Fiona interrupted. "Theodore, go to your room, now!"

The boy fled, without a backward glance.

"Can't bear to see your baby grow up?" Bella mocked.

"He's sixteen years old!"

"You sound just like Narcissa," Bella said poutingly. "Boys do grow up, you know." There was an undertone in her voice that was just now filtering into Severus's impaired awareness. A hint that Theodore might not escape this summer without a more thorough initiation. The idea was so nauseating that he suddenly heaved up more grey slime: Bella, older than himself, seducing a boy of sixteen... Then, without warning, his own hypocrisy struck him. _Were your actions any less abominable?_ His soul writhed, while his mind tried desperately to pin down the substance of the difference he felt between himself and Bellatrix.

"You won't have the teaching of him!" Fiona protested. "You leave him alone."

"A mother hen." Bella clicked her tongue. "How predictable."

"I could order you out of this house, Bellatrix!"

"Ah, but you won't, Fiona. Because I could make things very, very uncomfortable for you...with what I know." The woman gestured mildly at the wizard on the floor.

Fiona's face darkened, but she seemed to shrink back. "Just leave my son alone!"

Bella shrugged. "Until later, Severus," she said, with cool malice, and strutted out of the cell, leaving Fiona torn between guarding her prisoner and guarding her child.

"This is _your_ fault!" she shrieked at Severus. And for the next seemingly interminable period of time, she punished him for all his sins, real and imagined.

* * *

The chains had tightened and slackened again—mercifully without the reappearance of his tormentors—when Severus roused unwillingly to the shaking of his shoulder. 

"Snape?" It was a man's voice. That alone was surprising enough to prevent Severus from striking out blindly. Although he scarcely had the strength to fight back anymore. "_Rennervate!_"

Severus gasped as vigor came back into his limbs. The lingering pain was undiminished, but it was suddenly easier to bear, as if any number of hours had been added back onto his fading lifespan. He had expected them to resort to healing spells, at some point, to keep him fit enough to survive another round of torture. But—he looked up into the dimly-lit face of the man—he had not expected them to involve Chester Nott.

"Doing Bella's dirty work?" Severus croaked out.

Chester grimaced. "You _would_ think so," he replied, with mild matching sarcasm. "Look here, can you walk?"

Severus's heart began pounding so rapidly that he feared for a moment it would fail him. "Where?" he gasped.

"Damn it, you're not fit to walk, are you?" Chester frowned deeply, looking around, as if an answer lay somewhere in the darkened room.

"You're not truly suggesting," Severus said hoarsely, "you're about to let me go?"

"Do you really want to _die_ here, Snape? They won't let you live; surely you must know that?" Chester snorted. "Although, goodness knows, most of your students would be just as glad if I let you rot."

A sharp retort hovered on Severus's tongue, but he did not have the strength to put due sarcasm into it. And under the circumstances, it hardly seemed wise to antagonize a possible rescuer. Although Chester Nott's motivation was as dark as the cell itself. "Why would you let me go?"

"Ted...you know, it isn't like him to come to me...but he told me what happened." Chester was frowning again, his voice very low. "Bellatrix Lestrange is a bad influence on my mother. I hoped they would have a falling out before now, especially after...well, the last time. But the prospect of damaging you—that was too great a temptation."

"No doubt," Severus breathed, wincing. His head was pounding. _If the man intends to do nothing but talk, he should let me go back to sleep while I can_.

"That woman is dangerous to everyone in this household," Chester went on, in an urgent tone. "We've already come under suspicion from the Ministry. Sooner or later she's going to egg my mother into doing something that will put the nail in her coffin, from one side or the other. And put us all at even greater risk than we are already."

It was only as he began trying to untangle the web of connections Chester was drawing that Severus realized how difficult it had become to think clearly from one moment to the next. But as far as he could determine, Chester had no less cause to wish him dead in the end than Fiona and Bella. "Where do I come in?"

"Bella is here now because _you_ are here. If you escape, Bella will flee at once, so she can pretend she had nothing to do with it. She...I don't know how, but she managed to twist things, when the Dark Lord called her to account for what happened when my father brought Sarah here. She _lied_ to him, told him it was all my father's fault. I was always warned that wasn't possible." Chester's voice took on a querying note.

"You believe she's a traitor?" Severus murmured warily; that was the conclusion that a faithful Death Eater might draw.

"It hardly seems likely, does it? After she went to Azkaban instead of pretending to be guiltless, like the rest of us. No, I have more doubts about Sarah's loyalty than I do Bella's."

"_What?_" Panic stabbed Severus, and he struggled to control it. "How dare you question Sarah's loyalty!"

"I am not _questioning_ it," Chester said. "But I knew Sarah. And the girl who came here this summer is not the child I knew then. People change, I know. But the change would make more sense if she'd grown up in another household than with her mother's family."

"Do not doubt her loyalty to _me_," Severus snarled weakly.

"There are those who doubt _your_ loyalty, Snape. And if _Bella_ can lie to the Dark Lord..."

"If you doubt me, then why let me go?" Severus was too innately suspicious to trust in this plan to free him. "Why not finish me yourself?"

"The Dark Lord trusts you," Chester said, quietly. "Curiously enough, Albus Dumbledore also trusts you, or so it would appear. You are, in some way, at the crux of this conflict. Whoever wins in the end, you may survive to serve the victor. And to put in a good word for those who have helped you."

So, _that_ was at the root of this rescue attempt. It was unsurprising that Chester had proven to be a man who cared more for his family's and his own survival than for any cause. But it was a feeble and foolish hope—that Severus might live long enough for Chester to collect on the debt. There must be more to the matter than this, unless the man was a fool altogether.

"How can you be certain what will occur, if you let me go?"

"Bellatrix will leave at once, and she will say nothing unless an accusation is made. My mother cannot afford to say or do anything, no matter how furious she may be. And you won't say anything either."

"You have cause to think so?" Severus felt a sneer twist his mouth, as a desire for revenge, fueled by a growing spark of hope that he might possibly survive this incident, boiled up inside him.

"Yes, I do. If for no other reason," and Chester's voice grew suddenly hard, "than the fact that I have been made the guardian of your child. And I haven't sworn any oath."

The sudden threat, from such an unexpected quarter, trapped Severus's breath in his throat.

"_If_ you have learned to lie to the Dark Lord, perhaps you _might_ convince him that I was in on the plot. I know how little I am trusted. But I know the truth will be in _my_ eyes. Is it worth the venture, to make him consider which of us is lying, and how?

"Besides," Chester went on, when Severus stared at him, dumbfounded, "do you really trust any of the others enough that you would prefer to see your child placed in their hands? _Without_ the protection of the Vow my mother made, or the natural affection I must feel for my cousin's child?"

"Your mother was forced to make that Vow." Severus tried to speak with his normal force, but the effort made him dizzy. "Can I believe you uninterested in revenge?"

"My mother brought that upon herself. Or, at any rate, my father and Bellatrix brought it upon her. Sarah did not _ask_ for the Vow; should I blame her for fearing for her baby? I know what my mother is, even if I care for her too much to let you bring about her death. Seek your revenge on Bellatrix if you like. But leave my mother out of it."

There was, of course, no other choice but to agree. The only alternative was a slow and painful death. He was too far gone already to quibble about whom he would and would not take revenge upon. And—the thought came to him suddenly, in opposition to Chester's threat—_Sarah_ might have something to say about what Fiona should suffer in return. But even as he thought this, it troubled him: it was the girl's error that had brought him here; surely to trust so much in her love was a mistake? And yet...the thought of her hands soothing him, her skill in potions bringing him back to health and strength, her eyes flashing in defense of him...

"Snape!" Chester shook his shoulder again.

"Yes, yes, I agree," Severus said, blinking. Damn, even his eyes hurt.

"I thought you'd see it that way," Chester said, too smugly for Severus's taste, but there was nothing to be done about it. The younger man stood and looked around the cell. "I don't like to leave you here, but it's clear that you're in no condition for what I originally had in mind. I'll have to brew some potions to get you on your feet. And by that time, my mother may be awake and ready to pay you another visit."

"What time is it?" Severus was not even sure what day it might be, by now. The sense of disorientation made him suddenly nauseous.

"Early Sunday morning," Chester said. "My mother and Bellatrix had it out again, late last night. Bella finally left—I don't know whether she slept in the house or not—but I'm sure she'll be back." He began pacing. "The biggest problem, of course, is the wards. You can't Apparate out. And the Floo is blocked. I think Bellatrix added a Portkey preventer. I can't do anything about those. The only way in or out is to walk physically. Or to fly—that was my original idea. The wards are weakest on the roof."

Severus winced. "Your mother has made the idea of sitting on a broom...rather unpleasant, you realize?"

Chester grimaced in sympathy. "I was afraid of that. We had a ratty, old flying carpet, but the Ministry confiscated it when my father went to prison. I'm afraid," he sighed, "that the best solution may be to hide you inside the house until the opportunity arises to smuggle you out."

"House-elves?" Severus queried. It was always a house-elf who brought his meager ration of bread and water.

"Well, that's a problem as well. I might be able to keep the house-elves away from a hiding place for a day or two, but with my mother looking furiously for you, suspicions will arise very quickly. And I would really prefer to avoid being accused of having helped you. On the other hand, I would rather not leave you down here to be tortured again." Chester rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, frowning. "The problem is getting you fit enough to run, and then getting you out unseen. They may not come down again until the early afternoon, although we can't depend on that. The longer you're missing, the longer they have to look for you. And once they start looking for you, I can't count on any orders I've given to the house-elves to be kept secret. It would be best to slip you out in the twilight. That's why I came down so early this morning. But obviously that isn't going to work."

"So I will be forced remain here until dark tonight?" Severus breathed tightly. The prospect of enduring another visit, let alone another entire day at the mercy of his captors, was nearly unendurable. But a failed escape attempt would almost certainly prove fatal, within hours if not within minutes or seconds; indeed, the best he could hope for then would be a sudden Killing Curse in the back.

"I don't like it, but that would be the safest course. I'll bring down some potions this morning, and more when they've left you for the while. When it's twilight, I'll help you out a window, and hopefully you can get past Bella's nasty protections...far enough to Apparate, at least."

"I would need my wand," Severus pointed out, his confidence in the younger man's ability to actually pull off this escape slipping further and further as he listened.

"I know. Mother put it inside a vase on the mantel in the library...so she can gloat without risking discovery, I imagine. I can get it without any difficulty. I was going to pop in for it on the way to the roof."

Severus dragged up a sneer. "You could have brought it with you."

"Well, until I knew where things stood, that didn't seem the best of ideas, did it?" Chester shrugged. And there was, unfortunately, no point in arguing the matter.

"I know which potions I require," Severus said weakly. Just thinking of his injuries brought the pain into throbbing focus again. "Ignatius Tonic, for one. And an Invigoration Draught."

"Murtlap Essence?"

"That wouldn't come amiss. Although," he took an unsteady breath, "if you have enough aconite, a bruise-healing paste would be better." Severus shut his eyes. "You are, I hope, capable of making these potions correctly?"

"Well, I suppose we'll know who to blame if I'm not." The smile was so evident in the man's voice that Severus forced his eyes open again. The grinning face that swam before him was strangely at odds with the defensive teenager who had been his student at the very beginning of his teaching career. He had a vague recollection of the boy eventually doing well in Potions, but after so much time and in his present foggy haze, he did not trust the memory.

"Don't worry," Chester said. "Not about the potions anyway." And with that, he left Severus alone again in the dim cell. It took only moments for the incident to seem like a passing dream, and Severus tumbled rapidly back into unconsciousness.

* * *

"This way," Chester whispered harshly. He took a left turn as they came up the dungeon stairs. 

Severus followed him in a haze of potion-diminished pain. Two more sessions of torture—one less than an hour past—had done little to aid the effects of the healing potions. In his hand, still scarred at the wrist by the shackles, his wand trembled. If he survived this...

"I'm taking you to the Morning Room. No one's there, even house-elves, at this time of the day. I'll let you out from there." Chester's voice was barely more than a breath.

Severus just hoped that he had the strength and concentration to Apparate once he was outside. And Chester had mentioned other defenses, set in place by Bella.

_This will not work_.

It seemed miles to the Morning Room, through other rooms and passages that might, at any moment, yield up someone determined to stop them. When they finally reached their destination—a room lined on three sides with windows that ran from floor to ceiling, revealing the manor grounds, bathed in twilight—Severus leaned heavily against the back of an delicate-looking armchair. Chester moved quickly to the windows; a pair of them appeared to open like doors, but when Chester turned the handle, nothing happened.

"Damn it! Locked?" Chester murmured. He hurried over to a desk that sat in the far corner and rummaged in a drawer, then returned with a key in hand. The faint sound of metal on metal, as the tumblers clicked over, was nearly as loud as their breathing in the silent dimness of the room.

"What the—?" Chester jerked repeatedly at the door handle, but to no avail. "_Alohomora!_"

_Just break the damned windows_, Severus thought, panic rising in him. He tried to muster up sufficient energy to raise his wand.

Chester, however, seemed more mindful of the house he would one day inherit. When the unlocking spell failed to work, he turned from the glass doors in search of another solution. "There's a guest suite nearby," he urged in a tight whisper. "Only the French doors open in here, but the windows themselves will open in there, and they may not have been tampered with."

Irritated beyond measure, Severus took aim at one of the glass panels. "_Vitrum peri!_"

Regardless of his weakness, the glass should have at least shattered, if not disappeared altogether. But when Chester reached out a hand to check the results, he found the glass still solid. More than the doors had been tampered with.

"_Come on, now!_" Chester insisted.

It was difficult to leave behind the very sight of freedom, and more difficult still to leave behind the support of the chair back, but Severus lurched after the other man, cursing silently.

Chester led them back the way they had come. But whether the man intended to try the guest suite, or whether he had given up altogether on the idea of windows as a possible exit, Severus would never know.

"Stop!" shouted a female voice, from further down the hall in front of them, as its owner emerged at a run from the doorway at the end. It was Bellatrix. The game was up.

If Severus had been whole and well, he would have stood and fought her. He knew himself to be as least as good a duelist, although whether or not he was better had never been put to the test. Chester, however, apparently had no such confidence in his own abilities. Dragging Severus by the elbow, he turned and fled.

It was fortunate that the woman's fury was strong enough to keep her running; it made her aim poor. A Stunner crashed into the wall beside them, flaking off plaster. There were other crashes—more distant, strangely. Then, unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, another woman's voice joined the fray, from further back.

"What is it? What's happening?" Fiona called shrilly.

"Your traitorous son. He probably alerted—" Bella spat. Her voice was cut off as Chester slammed the door of the Morning Room behind them. There had, apparently, been no other way to retreat. And now they were trapped.

"_Colloportus!_" Chester sealed the door, although both of them knew it would not hold long. "I'm sorry, Snape. I didn't intend for things to go this badly wrong."

Severus had collapsed against the chair again; his legs felt like water, and he was not sure that even the chair would keep him standing for more than another minute. "Must be...another solution..." he gasped. Like blasting the walls down altogether. But Chester was unlikely to concur. Severus felt a sudden surge of sympathy with the Dark Lord's disgust with the Nott family.

"Look," Chester said, his voice betraying his hesitation, "I can make it quicker than they will. If you want."

Severus looked up in surprise, meeting the younger man's eyes, almost as dark as his own in the half-light. He thought he had come to grips with his own death, but he realized, as he considered the offer, that he had not. Or at least the recent hope of survival had taken away any possible peace he had made with the idea. Beside, he thought wryly, could this pampered son of the gentry do what he was suggesting? On the other hand, the sudden iron that Theodore had found in himself might well be present in his older brother. Chester's expression had hardened, and Severus felt a cold chill run through him.

The women's voices, coming nearer, reached comprehensibility. "—the windows!" Fiona shrieked.

"You fool!" Bella said. "I've secured every part of the exterior against magical attack! The only way in or out is the front door. And the roof, from which I plan to leave. We just need to take care of this little problem, first."

"Magical attack?" Chester mouthed, but he was in motion already, before the thought was completed, before Severus could speak, before Bellatrix could blast the door open. He took his wand between his teeth and with both hands snatched up another of the fancy armchairs and threw it. It went through a section of the glass, splintering mullions and all, with a satisfying crash.

Unfortunately, the crash was followed almost instantly by another. The door to the Morning Room flew open, blown nearly off its hinges. A cry of protest burst from Fiona, but Bellatrix overrode her.

"So you thought you could escape!" she howled. "What did you promise this fool for helping you? _Expelliarmus!_" Chester's wand, only back in his hand for a moment, flew toward her, although she did not bother to catch it.

"Get _Snape!_" Fiona yelled. "There's no time! _Petrificus Totalus!_"

It was fortunate that Severus was braced so heavily against the chair. His body snapped rigid, but the chair prevented him from falling; he leaned there like a misplaced statue, wishing that he had accepted Chester's suggestion more quickly. The escape attempt had failed before it had properly begun, and Severus' sympathetic helper was known and disarmed. Fiona had no reason not to follow her original plan to take her time about torturing him to death. But then, he thought dully, why was Bella talking of fleeing?

A light flashed suddenly outside the windows, and a shout was raised. One of Bella's little surprises? That made no sense, unless it had been triggered by the breaking of the window. But there was further movement in that direction, and out of the darkness, a young woman on a broom appeared in the gaping hole.

"Why, thanks, Snape. You're under arrest, Aunt Bellatrix!" said Tonks, pointing her wand. Then, "Damn it! _Stupefy!_" Behind Severus, in the direction of the door, there was a scuffling of feet, the blasting sound of a spell that missed, and then Tonks shouted again, "_Expelliarmus!_" A wand flew into her outstretched hand, but it was not Bella's wand. Severus had not known this wand for so many years, although he had become horribly familiar with it over the last few days. "_Colloportus!_" Tonks, apparently not wanting to take the risk of both her prisoners escaping, slammed the battered door closed.

"You won't take me alive!" Fiona shrieked, followed by a soft thud, as if she had dropped to the floor.

"Mother, please!" Chester shouted, lunging toward the door.

Tonks seemed to hesitate for a moment, unsure, perhaps, whose side the man was really on. But then, she had no reason to know that Chester had been trying to help—only the split-second assessment (if she were capable of making it) that Chester had been unarmed and standing apart from the two women. And that moment was enough for Fiona.

"_Incendio Totalis!_"

What followed was like an explosion—a blast of intense heat that hit Severus in the back and knocked him from his balancing point against the chair. But even as he fell, he seemed to turn feather-light, or at least, the expected impact never came. The crackling of flames rose to a roar, covering Chester's screams of dismay.

**

* * *

A/N:** What do you think? Are they all going to die? (I'm not telling...yet.) 

I made up the incantation for the slug-vomiting hex. We aren't told the words in the books, and (as The Harry Potter Lexicon points out) they are probably not "Eat Slugs" (as shown in the movie).


	61. Ch 60: Sollt’ ich Unseliger

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Yes, I'll say it one more time—I don't own Harry Potter and his universe. That honor belongs to J. K. Rowling.

**A/N:** Final chapter. Yup, it really is. I have trouble believing it myself. Indeed, I had horribly mixed feelings about posting this chapter. I have devoted two years of my life to this story. To finally let it go...not easy.

Thank you for coming all this way with me.

And no, the title of this chapter is not from _Phantom_. More explanation later.

**

* * *

Chapter 60: Sollt' ich Unseliger sie Liebe nennen?  
****(Should I, Accursed As I Am, Call It Love?)**

"I'm not ready for this!"

Sarah clung to the mantelpiece as the tightening began again, a subtle ripple that slowly turned her burgeoning abdomen as rock-hard as if it had been struck with a Petrifying Jinx, and went on squeezing until she could scarcely breathe. At what seemed a finger's width from real pain, it ebbed.

"You're as ready as any, and more than most," Miriam said, with maddening reassurance. "Let's walk some more."

Admittedly, it seemed absurd. A week ago she had felt more than ready to have this ordeal over and done, to have her body back, to shed the burden that made every movement an awkward effort and every rest less than restful. But a week ago she had felt an assurance that everything was going as well as it possible could. Now, everything that could go wrong, had. There was no knowing whether Severus was dead or alive. Tonks had promised to send word, but that had been hours ago. There was no knowing whether Tonks herself was dead or alive, or if the rescue effort had failed, or if it had even properly begun. But one way or another, Notting Chase, the designated future home of her child, was no longer even remotely a safe haven. And there was no knowing what the Dark Lord might order to be done, if the worst of all possibilities had occurred.

_"Walking tends to hasten labor"_—all of Sarah's books had offered that pithy advice. It had not seemed so impossible when she was a stone lighter than she was now. Or before she had walked to the Leaky Cauldron and back. She would have preferred to use the Floo for the homebound trip, but Miriam, who had caught up with her halfway down Knockturn Alley, had insisted on their walking back. _"As well to get this over with now,"_ the older woman had said, after she noticed the sudden, pained way Sarah put a hand to her back when she stood up after the interview with Tonks.

And so they took another turn around the room.

* * *

At nightfall, Sarah lay on her side, half-dozing between the almost-pangs that continued in what seemed both a fruitless and a relentless rhythm. Miriam had allowed her a light supper and a respite, leaving Sarah under Cornelia's watchful eye while she went home for news and her bag of supplies. 

Sarah jolted fully awake at the sound of the outer door closing. _Severus?_ Or Tonks, at least, with news, good or bad? When Miriam appeared in the bedroom door, Sarah's heart sank.

"Any news?" she pleaded, wresting herself into a sitting position.

Miriam shook her head. "At least it isn't bad news, cherub. Ready to walk some more?"

Sarah shut her eyes, trying to decide what her body wanted. _"Listen to your body"_ was another dictum she had read repeatedly. Yes. She was tired of lying down. No position was truly comfortable anymore. And the lack of any news had brought her back into the same fretful state in which she had spent the past three days.

"I'll walk," she said.

Cornelia came in, and between her and Miriam's helping hands, Sarah pulled herself to her feet. But as she did, her stomach tightened again rapidly. And strangely. Suddenly she was gushing liquid down the inside of her legs; it pooled on the floor around her feet. It took a moment for her to comprehend that she hadn't somehow wet herself.

"That's done it," Miriam said. "It'll go quicker now." With a murmured spell, she cleaned up the mess. "Walk with her, Cornelia."

"I'm frightened," Sarah whispered, as they moved into the kitchen. It was finally sinking in that, contrary to what she had begun to believe, she would not be pregnant forever. Even the course of her labor thus far had been more suggestive of stasis than progress. Now things were changing in earnest, and she could not stop them.

"It'll be just fine, you'll see," Cornelia said. "Severus will come back, too, and you'll have his son to show him."

"I want him back _now!_" Tonks should have sent word by now. No matter what the outcome had been. Unless the rescue party had been defeated. Or unless—the horrible thought sprang up—unless Severus had told Tonks not to, had decided that he wanted nothing further to do with the foolish girl who had put him in such a position.

Earlier, they had come to the conclusion that it was easiest for Sarah to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. The mantel was always handy to cling to. Sarah leaned on it now and wept.

"Is it a pang again, so soon?" Miriam asked, coming out of the bedroom. She came up beside Sarah and laid a hand on her abdomen. "No."

"Severus will hate me!" Sarah moaned. "Whatever has happened to him is my fault."

"Rot! I told you before, Connor would have found a way."

"He'll blame me anyway!" She had never known forgiveness to be a part of Severus Snape's nature. True, he had let small things slip by with a cross word or two, but not something like this.

Carabas, perhaps sensing that his mistress was in distress, or maybe just feeling put out that he was not the center of attention, made a prodigious leap from a nearby chair to the mantelpiece, and began picking his way along it. Cornelia scratched him perfunctorily under the chin, but that did not seem to be enough for him. He began butting his head against the frame of the painting that hung over the mantel.

The painting had been a wedding gift from Jacob and Cornelia—a tatty jumble-sale thing, a ghost ship caught between a green sea and a green sky. The Dutchman's ship, Cornelia had said. The symbolism had not been lost on Sarah, although she had wondered if Severus understood it: a damned man, saved by a young woman's love. She would have thought it was altogether too sentimental an idea for his tastes; it was nearly too sentimental for Sarah's, knowing all too well the realities of their relationship. But one afternoon shortly thereafter, while Sarah was out with Miriam, Severus had hung it over the mantel in place of the battered, smoke-blackened poster that had been there before.

As she stared at the painting, watching the sea and sky raging around the ghostly ship, she felt a surge of hatred for it and all it meant. She had not saved Severus. She had damned him all the further. And that story had not ended happily, either—the lovers had both died, the Dutchman convinced of the girl's betrayal, learning only too late how truly she loved him.

Sarah's abdomen began tightening again, but this time it did not stop short of pain. She gave a low cry as she bent over.

"Things will move quicker now," Miriam said soothingly. "It will all be over soon enough."

Sarah gasped for breath as the contraction slowly released its hold. As soon she could speak, she pleaded, "Take it down."

"Take what down?"

"The painting!" Sarah snapped. "The beastly painting!"

"I didn't know you didn't like it," Cornelia said defensively.

"The motion's making her sick, that's all," Miriam said. "Let's have it down for the while. Come away, Sarah."

Sarah let Miriam lead her across the room, where she lowered herself wearily onto Severus's chair. She had done so much wrong already, and now Cornelia was offended...

Offended or not, Cornelia drew her wand, held one hand to the frame to keep it from falling, and spoke the words of an Unsticking Charm. But when she reached up to take the painting in both hands, it didn't come away from the wall. "What's this?"

"Permanent Sticking Charm?" Miriam asked.

"Why would he do that?" Cornelia asked. "It's not as if it's terribly _valuable_." A hint of pique remained in her voice.

It _was_ odd, Sarah thought. _Why would...?_ And then suddenly she knew.

"Wait a minute," Cornelia said, as Sarah struggled to her feet again.

"It must be behind—" Sarah broke off as Cornelia swung the picture frame away from the wall like a door.

There was nothing behind it.

"That's curious," Miriam said, moving forward at Sarah's side.

"Don't toffs keep their valuables behind pictures like that?" Cornelia asked.

"In a _safe_," Sarah said, stunned, coming up to the mantel. _Toffs like he wanted to become. Toffs like the woman he had married, the woman he expected to understand his meaning._ "A _safe_ box."

"But there's nothing there," Miriam said. She drew her fingers across the blank space of wall behind the painting.

"I think I know how to open it," Sarah said. "But I need my wand." She had left it on the bedside table earlier, while she was resting, and hadn't picked it up again. It was not as if a woman in labor could go about casting spells.

"Get it, Cornelia," Miriam said, when the other girl seemed to hesitate.

With wand in trembling hand, Sarah tapped a pattern on the wall, murmuring the names of the same protective herbs that guarded his workroom, hoping she would get them in the right order the first time. She didn't—it took a second try. But on the whisper of "betony," a square of wall paneling disappeared, revealing a shallow space, no deeper than the thickness of the wall. And inside, propped on end, was a battered, flattish box, of the sort that fireworks came in. The faded label, as she drew it out, confirmed the guess, although it had probably been a long time since it had held what was advertised to be inside.

More from impulse than reason, Sarah carried the box into the bedroom, leaving the two other women to follow in her wake. She sat down on the bed, laying the box down carefully beside her. Curious, how that little box could inspire all the quiet awe that a coffin might, could make the onlookers stand as silently and reverently as at the side of grave.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah opened the lid. The fumbling that was necessary took something of the edge off the awe, but still, none of them spoke.

On top of the contents was a folded sheet of parchment. When Sarah lifted it out, a silver band slipped out of the folds and rolled into a corner of the box. Severus's wedding ring.

_If you have found this_, Severus's determined scrawl spilled across the page, _then in all likelihood, I am dead. Inside this box you will find a will naming Sarah Darkglass as my heir. You will also find a ring. If there is enough of me left to bury, and if Sarah wishes it, you may place it on my hand before I go into the grave. Otherwise, I wish it to be kept for my son. That, and the few things in this box, may be the only decent memory of me that he will ever have. Keep them well._

_Severus Snape_

_15 July 1996_

Sarah felt her throat closing as she read. He had expected to die, at some point. So why had he hidden this from her? Or had he expected her to find it eventually? Or...no, Professor Dumbledore, to whom the letter seemed tacitly addressed, probably would have found it, in the process of sweeping up any remaining magic his spy might have left behind.

Her eyes burned, but she had shed too many tears these last few days, and there were none left. Setting the letter aside, she reached into the box again. Here was the will, just as he'd said, but a quick glance was enough to show that, for a wonder, he had not concealed any of his meager estate from her. Next she drew out a sheaf of school marks, carefully tucked between the folds of his Hogwarts letter—year-end marks for every year he had spent at school, O.W.L.s, N.E.W.T.s, and his special commendation in Defense Against the Dark Arts. A letter of recommendation from Horace Slughorn. Apprenticeship papers to Baudicarius Brimshaw.

She was nearly to the bottom of the box now. Aside from the ring, there was an old-fashioned ivory comb, the sort that women of an earlier generation used for pinning up their long hair. And beneath the ring and comb, there was a newspaper clipping.

Sarah slipped it out carefully. The headline read: "_Hogwarts Professor Exonerated_." A photograph accompanied the story—Professor Dumbledore, looking only slightly less care-worn than the headmaster she knew, being followed through a crowd by a young man, scarcely more than her own age. Even if Sarah had not recognized the inimitable scowl he fixed on the photographer before he turned away, the caption would have identified him: "_Professor Severus Snape with Headmaster Albus Dumbledore at the Ministry of Magic_."

It was, she realized suddenly, the only photograph she had of Severus. Perhaps the only one that had ever been taken.

She swallowed hard. There was nothing else in the box. Nothing that could have saved him.

"Like as not, the comb was Calpurnia's," Miriam spoke up quietly.

The young man in the photograph turned and scowled again.

Miriam touched Sarah's shoulder. "We'd best put all this aside for now."

She would rather have sat staring at the clipping, spent hours studying the contents of the box, but the tightening of her womb brought her back to her present situation. Whether Severus was alive or dead, whether she died herself in the process, she was about to bear his child.

The intensity of the contraction did not surprise her this time, and she was more aware of the nature of what was happening. "I think," she said, when her breath was her own again, "he's jamming into my hip bones."

Miriam examined Sarah's abdomen with her hands, then nodded. "We'll try squatting first."

There were, of course, spells and potions to aid in childbirth. Sarah had made any number of the potions. And Miriam, with her bag of midwifery supplies and decades of experience, knew more than a dozen books put together. But magic was a tricky thing to use at a birthing. A magical child might react in unexpected ways, under the stresses of being born, and it was more likely to do so if its quiescent power was stirred up by the pressure of magical forces. And there was no room for magical mistakes when two lives hung in the balance.

As loath as Sarah was to put away the papers, Cornelia was already reaching out to help her do so. But Sarah caught up the ring and slid it onto her middle finger; her hands had swollen so much of late that her own ring would not come off, and the ring Severus had worn all too seldom on his lean hand fit snugly. Nor could she allow the newspaper clipping to be put away—she laid it on the bedside table, propping it against a stack of books with her wand.

Squatting sounded simple enough. It wasn't. Even with Cornelia and Miriam to support her, Sarah found that her thighs and back were exhausted rapidly by the effort. The only motivation to continue was the fact that the awful pressure that she had felt on her pelvic bones was, with each contraction, focused firmly downward between her legs. Still, it was too uncomfortable to sustain. Miriam finally let her walk between the pains, crouching down only when she felt the tightening begin.

It seemed to go on forever.

* * *

She couldn't do it. There was simply no way for a baby to come out the way it had gotten in. And in spite of the charmed scissors Miriam had placed under the bed, the pain seemed all the more terrible for knowing it would never end. Neither Fiona nor Bellatrix, in all their disgust at her choice of a lover, could have devised a more thorough punishment for her. 

Miriam would not even let her lie down. She had made Cornelia sit against the head of the bed, with Sarah leaning back against her, cradled upright in her arms. The picture of Severus, which had given her comfort at first, had become upsetting. His scowl accused her, and his youth was an illusion. Even if she could have gone back in time to meet him when they were of an age, he had loved other girls then, girls with whom she could not have competed. He would not have looked twice at her.

_But_, she thought, as a particularly fierce pang released its grip, _he's mine now_.

If he was alive.

Or not. If she died, would she find him waiting for her?

"I want Severus!" she pleaded, trembling. "Why hasn't Tonks brought him back?"

"There's been no news, Sarah," Cornelia said, close behind her ear.

"I _want_ him!"

"He'd be of no use here," Miriam said soothingly. "There's no place for a man at a birthing. This is women's business."

True as it was, and as grateful as she was that Miriam and Cornelia were here, Sarah wept. "_I want him back!_"

* * *

"Wait, Sarah!" Miriam urged, "Don't push against your body." 

"I...have...to..." Ah, there, it was beginning again.

"Let it flow, cherub, just let it flow."

Sarah groaned, clinging to Cornelia's hands.

"Good girl. We're nearly there."

"Really?"

Miriam looked at her cannily. "We don't want to hurry things too quickly. Here's the Stretching Oil." The midwife pulled a jar from her bag, and began slathering Sarah's nether regions with the warm, greasy stuff. Sarah was beyond feeling the indignity.

"I...really...have...to..." The urge to force the baby out was the only thing she could think of. That, and the growing, burning pain between her legs.

"Easy does it. Let your womb do the work."

"I...can't help it!" Sarah shrieked, straining downward.

"Is it time?" Cornelia said.

"Yes," Miriam answered. "Sarah, I'm going do a Levitation Charm. Cornelia will steady you."

Sarah hardly noticed the difference. And if Miriam was still trying to tell her to slow down—as if she could!—Sarah couldn't hear it. With every pressing urge, the blood roared like a rising tide in her ears.

Unexpectedly, she heard Miriam say, "He's nearly here. Feel!"

Miriam took her hand and pressed it somewhere in the center of that burning pain, on a warm wet curve that was not part of her own body. Sarah gasped, then breathed out something between a laugh and a sob.

"Just a little longer. Follow your body's lead."

The sensation of fullness was terrible, and Sarah's body pushed at it, gasping, groaning.

"Here's the head."

Finally came an impossible easing, a rush of fluid. Sarah shuddered as she pressed again, and then burning, pressure, and all faded to a buzz of relatively inconsequential pain. Sarah looked down, dazed. There was a little creature in Miriam's hands, all red and purple and grey, with a twisted cord emerging from its belly. _His_ belly, she realized, as she saw the tell-tale parts, as weirdly oversized as his head was. The creature coughed, a tiny splutter. Miriam forced a finger into his mouth, flicking out an accumulation of mucus. A second cough merged into a wail of indignation. Miriam snatched up a white cloth and wound it round him with a practiced hand.

"Here's your son," she said, her voice filled with pride, and she lifted the bundle into Sarah's arms. "Cornelia, get a bowl for the afterbirth."

Sarah stared at the baby. It was a baby, after all, although the resemblance to some strange and barely human creature was only slowly fading. His skin was strangely mottled and streaked with blood and patchy white stuff, the top of his head a mass of matted dark fuzz. And in spite of the illustrations she'd seen in her books, the pulsing cord seemed even more alien than the baby. It did not seem possible that this strange infant was the invisible child she had cherished so many months, or that she had been—was still—connected to him, inside, by this bizarre thing.

His wails became frantic, piercing her with an unfamiliar sense of panic. "How do I make him stop?"

"It's good for his lungs," Miriam said, clearly not at all concerned. "Though you'll need to put him to the breast in a minute. Might as well be now."

It was an awkward thing, to open the front of her already hitched-up robe and press this little squalling thing's mouth against her breast. He worried at her, still whimpering, as if he could not find what he wanted, but finally, with Miriam's help, he took the nipple into his mouth.

Sarah stared down at him as he suckled. It was such a curious sensation. And such a curious thing, that this..._this_ was her Severian. There was, she thought, something about his eyebrows that reminded her of... Her breath caught in her throat. Where was Severus? Why had they sent no word? Or was it bad news, and the men of the Snape household had declined to bring it until the birthing was done? Was this child all she had left of him?

A cramping tightened her abdomen. She had almost forgotten that the afterbirth was still to come. The placenta, useful for so many things, according her books, good as well as terrible. Cornelia had placed the big white bowl to catch it underneath Sarah, who was still hovering above the bed, sitting on air and magic.

"Mum, the bleeding," Cornelia said suddenly, her voice tautly guarded.

"I see it," Miriam said. She pulled a potion bottle from her bag and pressed it to Sarah's lips. "Three swallows."

Sarah choked on the bitter stuff, then gasped in pain as her womb knotted. The baby fussed as he came loose from his hold on her breast, and she found herself scrambling to latch him back on, pushing her own distress aside. _I can't die now_, she argued against the panic that shook her.

Miriam forced two more doses of the potion down her before Sarah felt a slithering and heard a wet plop. The midwife reached quickly into the bowl, bending close to examine what she saw. After a moment, she sighed quietly. "It's well enough. Give her another dose, all the same, Cornelia."

"Am I all right?" Sarah gasped, her voice hoarse from the final nasty dose. She could not stop trembling.

"Never fret, cherub, you're right as rain. We'll clean up a bit, and get you settled."

As the two other women scuttled about, Sarah turned her attention back to the baby. He was so tiny. His hands, five fingers on every one, were just big enough to clasp her thumb. Five toes on each foot that she untangled from the cloth. Muddy-colored eyes stared up at her. She was not sure what to feel. Glad, that the ordeal was over? Grateful, that she and the child lived and were whole? Ashamed, at the circumstances of his conception, now revealed in his irrefutable presence? Grieved, that his father might have died before his birth? Frightened, at having to protect this child all alone, from those who would hurt him or use him for their own ends?

Miriam distracted her from these anxious thoughts by slathering her tender underparts with another unguent. The midwife, her hands still bloodied, shifted the bowl to one side, and covered it with a cloth. "Let her down now."

Cornelia drew her wand and lowered Sarah gently back onto the bed. Sarah winced in anticipation of pain, but Miriam's medicine seemed to have done the trick. She ached, but nothing more. After some propping of pillows, and bundling of blankets, Sarah found herself resting in tolerable comfort, her shaking subsiding at last.

"Change him to the other breast now," Miriam instructed. She lifted the bowl again and settled it carefully at Sarah's side to keep it near the baby. "We'll wait another hour or two before we separate the cord."

"What time is it?" Sarah asked, startled. It was as if she had forgotten there was such a thing as time. She looked to the window; the darkness was thinning, grey and dim.

"Nearing dawn, I should think," Miriam said, helping her shift the baby to her other breast. As he began suckling again, the cramping in her abdomen resumed. "Four or five o'clock. It'll be the 29th of July."

Sarah stared at the bowl, the cord snaking out from under the cloth, and was compelled by curiosity. With a glance at Miriam that went unchallenged, she flicked the cloth back. There was the organ, drowning in her own blood. She had handled the dried placentas of other animals in her potions work, but this looked more like the liver of some freshly killed thing. _The only meat that does not require a death_, she remembered, from one of Miriam's more ancient texts, although her stomach turned at the idea. Better to see it for what it was: a potion ingredient.

"I'll need to save that," Sarah said, covering it again.

"I know it," Miriam said. "Many's the time I've carried off an unwanted afterbirth for its properties myself. Or for Severus," she added. She took a deep breath. "There's been no news, yet."

"Truly?" Sarah asked, wanting to believe that she was not being lied to, but not trusting that hope.

"I'll go back to Mum and Dad's flat," Cornelia offered abruptly. "They may know something more."

Miriam nodded.

"Please don't lie to me," Sarah begged, as the older girl turned to go.

Cornelia shook her head faintly. "I won't."

* * *

Sarah cradled her baby, watching the flash of the almost-familiar come and go on his tiny face, glancing up at the photograph for confirmation. There was definitely something about his eyes and eyebrows. Even his jerking movements put her in mind of Severus at his most tense. The tiny nose was rather flat, although Miriam assured her that that was common for babies, and there was no knowing how it would turn out. 

The twisted cord seemed to be shrinking in on itself. There were, Sarah remembered, uses for that, too. But dark ones. She shivered again, faintly.

The outer door opened, and Miriam sprang to her feet. Sarah could scarcely resist doing likewise. But it was only Cornelia.

"Nothing," she said, downcast and frustrated. "Dad won't contact the Auror office either."

Miriam snorted. "I'd have known better than to ask him. The news, whatever it is, will come sooner or later, one way or another."

Some news came sooner.

* * *

"_Sectum Cauterium_," Cornelia said, with a careful slashing motion of her wand. The main length of the withered cord hung limply from the side of the bowl, until Miriam twitched it inside; a stubby section was left protruding from the baby's cloth. Then Miriam unwrapped him carefully, wiped him down with a warm, wet rag, diapered him and wrapped him in clean, fresh flannel. But he was restored to Sarah's arms only briefly. Cornelia took him to hold while Sarah ate the gruel and toast and tea that Miriam had prepared. She was still eating when Devin burst in, a newspaper in his hand. 

"What do you make of this?" he asked grimly, offering it to his mother. Miriam studied it swiftly, a frown creasing her brow.

"What is it?" Sarah pleaded. She had gotten to her feet before she realized that she could. She was sore, but she could move.

"I don't know what to think." Miriam hesitated a moment, then placed this morning's _Daily Prophet_ in Sarah's outstretched hands. The picture on the front page showed a building in flames.

"_Death Eater's Mansion Burns to the Ground_," read the headline.

"_Notting Chase, Northumberland, former residence of recently captured Death Eater Franklin Nott, 48, burned to the ground during the night. The fire was unquestionably of magical origin, although it is not known at this hour who is responsible for the spell or whether any of the Nott family have survived._

"_Representatives of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Magical Catastrophes maintain they have the situation under control, although there is speculation that the fire resulted accidentally from an attempted raid on the house, perhaps in search of more evidence of Mr. Nott's contacts among You-Know-Who's followers. It is to be hoped, regardless of the outcome, that this incident will encourage others to reconsider their support of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. More information to follow in the evening edition_."

Sarah stared, stunned, at the photo. Very little was visible aside from the flaming house itself—the picture had been taken in the dark, and any human figures were mere silhouettes against the dancing flames. She studied them, looking for any familiar forms, but no one was recognizable.

All the Notts, dead? That was a blow over and above the possibility that Severus might have perished in the fire. She had little enough love for some members of that family, but when all was said and done, they were family nonetheless, and she had lost too much of that already. And Chester and his wife were her only hope for Severian. She did not want to give her child over into anyone else's hands—she felt a sudden and painful urge to snatch the baby even from Cornelia—but if she had to give him up to someone like the Malfoys... No, she could not do that. And if Severus had died, as well...

"Help her sit down," Miriam said sharply, and Sarah realized she was swaying, unsteady on her feet. Miriam and Devin lunged together to catch hold of her and lead her back to the bed.

Like Miriam, Sarah hardly knew what to think. If the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was involved, that meant Aurors. But had they been able to rescue Severus before the fire? And who would have set it? Severus, in revenge for what his captors had tried to do? It would take a fire set magically and by intention to burn such a house to the ground before the Department of Magical Catastrophes could put it out.

But if he had, if he had been strong enough to cast a spell like that, then why had he not returned? Why had Tonks not sent word? The silence from the Order suggested the dire possibility that the Order members who had gone to rescue him had all perished, or been hurt. And there was no hope there. Professor Dumbledore, at least, ought to have sent word. That he had not raised the possibility that he, too, had gone to Notting Chase, and that he, too, had not come away alive. And if that were so...

Sarah took a deep, desperate breath, as she imagined the result: a world dominated by the Dark Lord, a world in which she would be forced to pretend ever more terrible things or die, a world in which her son would grow up believing the lie. A world in which she would have to take far greater responsibility—with very little hope of succeeding—of plotting the Dark Lord's fall.

"I can't," she whispered, burying her face in her hands. "I _can't do _it all alone."

"We know nothing for certain yet," Miriam said, her voice betraying her own distress. "Don't work yourself into a taking. And we'll never abandon you, Sarah."

"I know." Sarah tried to steady her breathing. "I know." And she knew, too, as she said it, that whatever was necessary, she would do it. How many things had she done, since Halloween night, that she had believed were impossible? Not least of which, she realized, as she let a hand stray across her strangely deflated abdomen, was bringing a child into the world. Severus Snape's child. Even if he were dead, he had that, at least—a son. Though it seemed he had paid for the child's getting with his life.

"I...I just want some quiet, for a little while."

"Take yourself off home, Devin," Miriam said quietly. "Time enough for more news later." She urged her son out of the room, and looked to Cornelia. "Will you sit with Sarah for the while? I want to go home for a bit myself." Undoubtedly she had been exhausted before, but now she looked grey with it.

"Of course."

"Sarah, you rest. Some sleep won't come amiss now, for all that I know you probably don't feel it yet." She ran a hand over Sarah's hair, grimacing with what her eyes showed to be sympathy and shared grief.

* * *

Sarah did sleep, with the infant Severian sheltered in the curve of her arm, while Cornelia kept watch in the outer room. But after a while, both mother and baby stirred. Sarah watched his movements, entranced. On impulse, she pulled Severus's ring from her finger and moved it in front of Severian's eyes, trying to attract his attention to the silver sparkle. But the world was too new and strange for him to understand any meaning in it. A lump tightening in her throat, she fitted the circlet over his tiny thumb. Tears pooled in her eyes, trembled on her eyelashes. What would she tell Severian about his father? She might never be able to tell him all the truth. And how could she ever tell him of her own part in his father's death? 

There was a crack of Apparition in the hallway, and the door to the flat banged opened, with unexpected force.

"My God!" Cornelia gasped, in the outer room, as heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

Sarah snatched up her child, desperate with panic, her eyes searching for her wand. Severian, startled, wailed loudly.

There, on the bedside table. She was about to lunge for it when the intruder halted in the bedroom doorway.

Sarah let out a sobbing, ragged breath.

* * *

Bruised and sore, even after Pomfrey's ministrations, Severus Snape came back to the Knockturn flat that, for want of a better description, he called home. Anything was better than having his more embarrassing injuries fussed over by that woman, and doubtless snickered over in whispers by any apprentices who were in residence at Hogwarts. Sarah, at least, might have the decency to let him be. 

Although, he recalled sourly, as his own door appeared before him, she bore more than a little responsibility for those injuries. The last time he had Apparated to this door...

Damn it, he realized, there was only a simple ward! What was the foolish girl thinking? Anyone could...

In frustration he burst through. He was mildly surprised—and unwillingly grateful that his family had not left Sarah alone—to see his cousin Cornelia at the stove. She, however, was more than a little surprised to see him.

"My God!" she cried, her eyes bulging as if she'd seen an unexpected ghost. But surely Fletcher had brought the message? Tonks had told the man specifically...

Clearly not. The fury Severus had been half-restraining exploded in him. _Worthless fuckwit Dung!_ If Sarah believed him dead...

He was already in motion toward the bedroom when a sound pierced the air. It was a sound that stirred up such memories that it nearly stopped his heart. What it meant, what it _must_ mean, was slow to become clear in his mind. Even as he halted in the bedroom doorway and stared at the startled girl, all he could see at first was the same pair of desperate eyes that he had left behind. A certain roundness of her form was still deceptive, until he looked to the source of the wailing, and saw the bundle she clutched protectively in one arm, and the open mouth and red face of the tiny creature wrapped within the clothes.

His son.

_His_ son.

The thought warred against—and slowly shattered—every other memory he had of infants crying. This was his own son to protect. His own son..._born as the seventh month dies_, he thought viciously, but no child of prophecy, this. No serene Madonna, no sacrificial protectress, just a girl who wept out his name.

"_Severus?_" She took a quavering breath. "I thought you were dead. Tonks didn't... The fire..." Then she was reaching out her free hand, as if she were still unsure that he was not a specter.

"_Damn_ that Dung!" Severus swore, as his hand clenched Sarah's. "I'll have his toes in pincers. Tonks sent him to give you news. Doubtless he found something to steal or sell along the way, and couldn't be bothered to finish his errand."

"What happened?" Sarah asked. But the child's crying was too strident to speak long tales over. Sarah drew her hand back and parted the neck of her robes. Severus watched, half perplexed, half jealous, as she fitted the furious little mouth against her breast. It took a few moments for the child to settle into noisy sucking. When Sarah looked up again, there was something disquieting in her eyes and on her face: the demands he had made on her had driven the innocence out of her, but until now, her eyes had still been those of a girl. He had tried to create, in his mind, some distinction that separated her from other girls whenever he was forced to face the fact that he was sleeping with a student. But now that illusion was banished as he saw, for a moment, the eyes of a woman. Then that too passed, just as illusory, and she was simply Sarah.

"Your guess, that I was being held prisoner at Notting Chase, was accurate," he said, blinking at a great clot of memories that crowded his mind and occluded his thoughts. "Tonks' crew interrupted an escape attempt, which was just as well, since your cousin had made a botch of it."

"The fire?" He could see her eyes searching him for signs of harm. The more obvious ones—the singeing of his hair and clothing—had been undone at Hogwarts.

"That was Fiona's doing," he answered grimly. "She set the fire when her crime was discovered." No need to tell Sarah the ugly truth—that the woman had immolated herself.

"She's dead?" Sarah said, resigned, more a statement than a question. "What about Chester and Niniane?"

"They escaped, as did Theodore. And, I fear, Bellatrix."

"So, she was there." Sarah frowned. "What did...?" She shook her head. "When I think what they must have done to you." Her voice broke, and she looked guiltily away from him, down at the baby.

Sweet Merlin, _his_ baby...

"She won't be troubling any of us for some time. When the Dark Lord learns the truth—and he will when he questions Chester about the fire—Bella will be treading very softly." He let himself feel the triumph that his pain had been dampening.

"Where will they go?" Sarah asked. "The Notts, I mean."

"You can't guess?"

Sarah looked up again, the hint of an impossible hope rising in her cheeks. "Darkglass Hall?"

"So Chester said. It will take years to rebuild Notting Chase, even by magic. And more money, I think, than Chester can afford to devote, when it's demanded elsewhere. Severian—" the name tasted suddenly strange and unreal on his lips, and he reached out a tentative finger to touch the child's tiny ear—softer even than his mother's skin. "He will be raised in the home of his ancestors. For the time being at least." He saw Sarah's expression tighten. No doubt it would come to a struggle when the time came to send the boy away.

"Chester...tried to save you?" Sarah asked.

"Yes. He seems to believe that I have the means to survive, whoever wins in the end, and to see that my allies do as well."

Sarah raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"We shall see. For the present, we wait. And recover from the...experience."

Sarah's face dissolved in guilt again. "I'm so sorry. You can shout at me all you want to. You can shout at me for the rest of your life."

It was a temptation. He had been wrestling with the problem of forgiving her from the beginning of his imprisonment. To forgive was not a thing that was in him—it never had been. And yet...as he looked into her upturned face, the anger that her acknowledged guilt roused in him seemed to dissipate, vanishing like the steam from a potion: there, and then gone, curling back into visibility a moment later, then disappearing again. And he knew suddenly that he could not cast this woman away. He needed her with a desire that was deeper than any physical longing could be. Of course, the pain she had cost him would make any such pleasure impossible for weeks to come. But then, the child—the child he had so carelessly, so foolishly engendered—would have put paid to that for her as well. Forgive her? He could not decide. But she was his, and whether he would or no, he loved her.

"Oh, I shall shout at you, no doubt, when occasion serves," he said, sneering faintly. "But not now." He shook his head, as he cast off what he dared to hope might be the last of his demons. He laid the tips of his fingers on his son's dark head. "Never in front of him."

**

* * *

A/N:** I am deeply indebted to cecelle and Lady Whitehart for consulting with me on the realities of childbirth. I've had four children, but I've only been in labor (hard labor—ouch!) once, and that ended (like the other pregnancies) in a C-section. So, despite all my years of studying the subject of natural childbirth, I've never actually done it. I still wish I had. :( 

Although most doctors rush to cut the umbilical cord, this is actually a harmful practice. If you ever have occasion to assist at an unplanned, out-of-hospital birth, leave the cord alone! After a few hours, the placenta "dies" naturally, and the cord can be cut then, with little or no bleeding. In some cultures, the cord is never cut—that's viewed as an act of violence against the baby; the placenta is just wrapped up and carried around with the baby until the cord dries up and detaches of its own accord.

The title of this chapter is taken from the opera _The Flying Dutchman_, or "Der fliegende Holländer" in the original German. The overture from this opera is the first piece of classical music that ever truly moved me—it was at a concert we were taken to in the fifth grade; I remember it distinctly, after all these years. The theme of the opera's storyline fits in well with this story and with _Phantom_. Even though this story has a happier ending than either of those. :)

An epilogue will follow, so if you're still interested, stay tuned.


	62. Epilogue 1: The First Apprentice Year

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter universe still belongs to J. K. Rowling. No matter how thoroughly she screws it up.

**A/N:** I'm sorry the epilogue has been so long in coming to you. Real life is, well, _real_—sometimes painful so.

The epilogue is actually going to consist of four parts: the HBP year, the DH year, several post-Hogwarts years, and the final epilogue that I originally conceived of when I was writing this story.

This first section of the epilogue covers the time period of Half-Blood Prince. Although it continues to be AU, it does reference events in the book, although they sometimes take place in a slightly different way. This part of the epilogue is structured as a series of drabbles—pay attention to the dates.

**

* * *

Epilogue 1: The First Apprentice Year**

**August 29, 1996**

Niniane reached out for the baby, her eyes wide and eager in her pale face.

Sarah knew she had no choice. She had already taken the first dose of the potion to dry up her milk. Some poor Squib would be wet-nurse to him now.

_At Darkglass Hall_.

The thought should have strengthened her. It did. But not enough. In the end, Severus took his son and handed him—both of them awkward as men are—to Chester Nott. And Chester laid the baby in his wife's arms.

_Severian Darkglass. Orphaned son of some obscure, non-existent Darkglass cousin in America._

**

* * *

September 1, 1996**

_Trust the boy to be where he shouldn't!_ Nor, Severus noted, as the gate came within the lantern's light, had Potter even bothered to put on his robes. And naturally the Auror who had found him would have to be Tonks. Any gratitude for her part in his rescue was tempered by her blunders, as well as her embarrassing knowledge of his injuries—now mercifully nearly healed. He would like to twit her about her new Patronus: it had taken the form of a certain werewolf. Under the circumstances, though, it seemed unwise to antagonize her. Severus gritted his teeth.

**

* * *

September 2, 1996**

"I wasn't ready for an apprentice, you see," Horace Slughorn said apologetically. "If Severus doesn't object to continuing as your mentor... I daresay he'd like to keep his Potions hand in."

Sarah kept her eyes down. She knew if she even glanced at Severus, Slughorn's inadvertent double-entendres would cause something—a laugh, a giggle, a snort, even a smirk—to spill out and spoil everything.

"I have no objections," Severus said steadily. "Miss Darkglass has been an excellent student. I would not have recommended her for apprenticeship otherwise."

"Yes. Got a commendation, I understand. A pity that I...uh...can't..."

**

* * *

October 19, 1996**

"Katie was my friend!"

"Hardly."

"She didn't deserve this! You have to put more pressure on Draco to talk to you!"

"You know how dangerous that could be."

"He isn't likely to complain to the Dark Lord of you interfering."

"I'm more concerned with other ideas his resentment of me might bring to mind. Suppose it occurs to him to approach the headmaster with the truth about us? It would be easy to attack an old man in a state of shock. And when there _is_ no shock...when Dumbledore fails to act upon the information?"

Sarah bit her lip.

**

* * *

December 17, 1996**

"I'm going home for Christmas."

Severus frowned. "It's best to let him alone for now."

Sarah lowered her eyes. "I don't want him to forget me altogether."

"He's an infant. He won't remember whether you were there or not."

Sarah turned back to her potion. "I got an owl this morning. From Chester. I'm...my presence is...required." Silence. Then Severus came and laid his hands on her shoulders. She took a deep breath. "We knew it would be like this."

"Will you be all right?"

Sarah smiled sadly up at him. "I was taught by the best, wasn't I?"

**

* * *

December 20, 1996**

"I promised your mother I would protect you."

"As if!" Draco scowled. "So that's why you've been trying to make up to me all year?"

"I am your Head of House. If anybody else repeatedly ignored a request to come to my office—"

"So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" Draco smirked; he held the ace.

"You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things."

"Then leave me alone!"

"I'm trying to help you, Draco."

"I don't need your help, or your protection. It's my job. He gave it to me."

**

* * *

April 18, 1997**

"That's, um..."

Sarah looked up, surprised. Slughorn had visited her lab a few times—out of curiosity, she supposed, but she had not expected him today.

"You, um, do know what you're brewing there?" he asked.

It was a Dark potion—Withering Death. Given to a person over a prolonged period, it would mimic a wasting illness.

"Yes, Professor."

"Did Professor Snape set you that?" he asked warily.

"Is there a problem, sir?" she asked, feigning innocence. "All along in Potions class, we're taught mixtures that we'd never actually use, aren't we?"

Slughorn cleared his throat. "Yes, well, carry on."

**

* * *

May 8, 1997**

"It was stolen, my fifth year. All my notes, preparations for the following year. It was impossible to reproduce everything. That's when _she_ pulled ahead of me." Severus paced tightly, shaking with fury. "Slughorn claims he loaned Potter a spare book, and took it back when the new one arrived. How could it have been in my own cupboard, all along?"

"A confunding spell?" Sarah asked. "To stop you from noticing it?"

"Hidden in plain sight?" he growled. "He ought to have been expelled. Everyone agreed. But of course, precious Potter..."

"You did what you had to." She held him.

**

* * *

June 16, 1997**

"It's getting beyond anything I can do." Severus grimaced at the damage, now spread nearly to Dumbledore's bared shoulder. "When it reaches your heart..."

"I only need a little more time, Severus."

Swallowing her tears, Sarah brought the goblet of healing potion. Her own virgin blood was in it, although not collected under optimal circumstances. Even if it had been, the potion couldn't do enough.

Severus bathed the blackened margin of flesh.

"I may need you, tomorrow night. Will you wait up for me, Severus?"

"Of course."

"Cheer up, Severus. You've escaped the curse thus far. Perhaps you were right."

**

* * *

June 17, 1997**

"Stay here. Pretend you didn't hear, that you didn't know."

There were Death Eaters in the castle. That was what the little blighter had been up to all year. And to pick tonight, of all nights, when Dumbledore was gone! If Draco had hoped that having that kind of assistance would give him the guts to try to kill the headmaster, he was going to find himself sadly surprised.

"What if they come down here?"

"Do whatever you have to do."

The kiss was quick, almost perfunctory. But it meant the world to Sarah that he would pause for it.

**

* * *

June 18, 1997**

The castle was quiet, but Severus hadn't returned.

There were fewer injured in the hospital wing than Sarah had feared. A couple of Potter's friends—Longbottom near the door, and (to judge from the red-haired Weasley parents) Ron or his little sister at the far end.

Tristan was alone in Pomfrey's office.

"You hurt, Sarah?"

"No, but I'm worried. Professor Snape was supposed to help me..."

"Haven't you heard? Snape killed the headmaster and ran off with the Death Eaters."

_Oh no_. Placed, finally, in an untenable position (_was it the curse?_), Severus had done what he had to do.

**

* * *

June 20, 1997**

Sarah stepped hesitantly inside Slughorn's office. "I thought you should know—I'm leaving my apprenticeship."

Slughorn studied her shrewdly. "I suspect, Miss Darkglass, that you're not really leaving your apprenticeship at all."

At the sudden, sad glint in his eyes, Sarah stiffened.

He went on. "You aren't the first apprentice to fall in love with her mentor. Although I believe you're making a terrible mistake in pursuing him, under the circumstances. I do wish you would reconsider."

Sarah made her face a mask. "It's more than that," she said coldly. "I have...family obligations."

Slughorn paled. "Of...course."

"Goodbye, Professor."

**

* * *

A/N:** The next section of the epilogue will be my version of Deathly Hallows.

BTW, I am going to be a guest of honor at a small convention in Iowa! If you want to find out about it, go to www dot keokon dot com.


	63. Epilogue 2: The Second Apprentice Year

**Obligatory Disclaimer:** Yada yada, you know the drill.

**A/N:** I know this has been a very long time coming. If you've still stuck with me this far, thank you. My thanks also go to Lady Whitehart and the members of her Harry Potter Refugees list (on YahooGroups) for helping me think through some of the problems I had to solve to make this work, and to cecelle for her keen-eyed proofreading.

When I originally planned this part of the epilogue, I was going to do the same thing I did in part 1—make reference to events in the book, with some AU twists. Unfortunately, DH turned out to be utterly unmanageable that way. What was required was a complete rethinking of the plot of DH. Since there were so many things I strongly disliked about DH, I was quite happy with the idea of "fixing" the plot. But I was also rather daunted at the prospect of, essentially, rewriting DH.

What I finally settled on was to outline the plot of my Hallow-less AU version of book 7 as a series of double-drabbles (because it quickly became clear that 100-word sections were not enough to give all the necessary details of Harry's story). The adventures of Sarah and Severus during book 7 are interspersed among Harry's double-drabbles in 100-word drabble form. I wrote the final battle without word limitations, because there was no other way of managing it.

The problem for my readers, as I see it, is that this chapter is mainly about Harry. But I hope you'll enjoy the changes to DH as much as I enjoyed making them.

* * *

**Epilogue 2: The Second Apprentice Year**

**June 30, 1997**

"I don't like this," Arthur scowled. "If Harry plans, even for a moment, not to return to his aunt's," he looked ruefully at the sullen young man standing near the fireplace with his own youngest son, "the protection will disintegrate a month early."

"We've got to know who's become the Secret-Keeper," Moody snapped. "Merlin forbid it was that—traitor," he snarled, "but that's the last Order member we know he was a-thinkin' of. If he didn't have anybody else in mind...."

"Let's just get it over with," Minerva said. She laid a piece of parchment and a quill on the Weasleys' kitchen table. Quickly, she wrote:

_Dear Professor Flitwick,  
The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at_

The quill trembled in her hand; she could write no further. "Well, it isn't me."

One at a time, the gathered members of the Order took up the quill. None of them managed to touch it to the paper.

"Harry," Moody said.

The youth stepped up. Frowning, he wrote, _Number Twelve Grimmauld Place_.

The collective sigh of relief spread in ripples around the room.

"It _is_ my house, you know," Harry said sharply. "Sirius left it to me."

* * *

**July 1, 1997**

"Are you ready?"

Sarah took a deep breath. Her last fateful attempt to Apparate, the summer after her sixth year, had landed her in hospital for two days. "_Distelic Mis-Apparition,_" they said, but didn't bother to take away her license—for all the good it did her when she couldn't Apparate more than ten miles without Splinching.

Severus's proposed solution—intermediate Apparition points—was reasonable...and clunky. And still terrifying. But when the Dark Lord's impatient anger compelled the attempt....

"One...two..._three!_"

Spinning...landing....

"All in one piece?"

He brushed away her tears of fear and relief.

"Excellent. Again."

* * *

**July 8, 1997**

"I hate being kept prisoner here. I've got to get to Godric's Hollow."

"I know, mate," said Ron, hovering on his broom in the dark outside Harry's window. "But the protection...."

"Don't you think Voldemort'll think of that? He'll have a dozen Death Eaters waiting to attack on my birthday. If the Order had any brains they'd have sent me straight from the Burrow to Headquarters. I mean, how would Voldemort know that the protection was gone?"

"I...don't know," Ron admitted.

"Right, he wouldn't. He'll think I'm staying here until my birthday, which is exactly what I shouldn't do." Harry clenched his teeth. "Look, Ron, I'm leaving. Tonight. Are you going to help me, or do I have to keep you from stopping me, too?" He drew his wand.

"Whoa, I'm with you!" Ron rocked backed. "But what's the plan?"

Harry let Hedwig out of her cage. He pulled a silvery bundle from his trunk. "You take my trunk and my Firebolt under the Invisibility Cloak, fly to Grimmauld Place, and hide them there. I'll take a walk down to the playground at dawn. You Apparate there; then we'll Apparate to Godric's Hollow together."

Ron sighed. "I hope this works."

* * *

**July 9, 1997**

"What a stupid thing to do!" Hermione railed.

"It's too late to worry about it now," Harry said. "Let's do what we came for, before anyone else shows up."

The ruins of the house sat in a glade, back from the road, just outside the village proper. The wind and rain of sixteen years had reduced the remaining walls to skeletons; drifts of leaf-mould hinted at buried debris.

"It's hard to believe I lived here," Harry said. "That my parents lived here."

"What, exactly, are we looking for?" asked Ron, trying to shake the uncomfortable silence.

"I've been thinking," Harry said. "If Voldemort planned to make a Horcrux when he killed me, wouldn't he have brought whatever artifact he planned to use with him?"

"Of course!" Then Hermione's face fell. "But, Harry, wouldn't Dumbledore have thought of that?"

"Maybe, but I don't know where else to begin looking. If nothing else, maybe I'll find something that...belonged to my parents."

Under the leaf-mould was a layer of ash. Hermione found bits of broken china. Harry found a children's storybook, charred and more than half burned away.

"What's this?" Ron said.

_Pop! Pop!_ Dark-robed figures appeared in the woods around them.

* * *

**July 9, 1997, later**

"You were very lucky you weren't killed," Lupin said. "If Moody hadn't chanced checking there, when you Disapparated...."

"But how did the Death Eaters know we were there?" asked Hermione.

Lupin shook his head. "Until we know, you're going to have to stay put, Harry."

"Like Sirius." Harry frowned.

"I'm sorry."

"We did find something worthwhile," Ron said. He held out a shield-shaped pin, crusted with dirt and ash. "It must have been Harry's dad's Head Boy badge."

Lupin took it and examined it closely. He scraped it with a fingernail. His brow furrowed. "I'm not sure this was James's."

"How could it not be?"

"It doesn't look quite right, for one thing."

"It's been a long time since you saw it." Harry snatched it and studied it himself.

"Yes, but when we were at school, the Head Boy badge was plain silver, just as it is now. That one seems to be inlaid with enamel."

"I don't see how you can tell, it's so dirty." Harry scraped at it himself. A glint of green caught the light.

"It must have belonged to someone else. A visitor or family member...."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "it must." _Voldemort's. And probably a Horcrux._

* * *

**July 11, 1997**

Chester tickled Severian, who shrieked with delight. Severus only watched, feeling vaguely guilty over being so little at ease with his own child. Then Niniane came in; Chester looked up, Severian forgotten.

Niniane, beaming, laid her tiny son in Sarah's arms. The noises they made over the new baby were typically female, and Severus felt no alarm until Sarah looked up at him unexpectedly.

There was a curious hunger in her eyes.

_We __**have**__ a child_, he thought crossly.

But not a child Sarah had been permitted to raise for herself.

Recognizing his expression of displeasure, Sarah looked uncomfortably away.

* * *

**July 14, 1997**

"That's it!" Hermione pointed at the tapestry. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"What?" Ron followed her upstairs.

"Harry, which was Regulus's room?"

"I...don't know," Harry said, emerging from his own as they hurried past.

"I don't want to ask any of the others unless we have to." She opened and shut door after door, not satisfied with what she found. "Oh, dear. I wonder if Sirius cleared it out? Then we'd.... Ah!"

On the top floor, where none of them had ever gone, a hand-lettered sign on a door read:

_Keep Out__  
by order of  
Regulus Arcturus Black_

"R.A.B.!" Ron exclaimed.

"Okay," Harry breathed harshly, "it makes sense. Sirius said Regulus had defected from Voldemort. But I bet he never imagined...."

"Does this mean the real locket has already been destroyed?" Ron looked hopeful.

"Maybe. But how did he manage to get it?" Harry thought back to the cave. "If he went by himself, the Horcrux is probably still in there, down with the Inferi. We'll never get it!"

"I wonder...." Hermione started downstairs. "Where's Kreacher?"

"Why would...? OH!" Harry gaped. "A house-elf wouldn't affect the boat."

Ron grimaced. "We always wondered why Kreacher was so cracked."

* * *

**July 15, 1997**

Kreacher had not wanted to tell them anything. Master Regulus had forbidden it.

"But Mistress Walburga pleaded, cried. So Kreacher told her: Dark Lord poisoned Master Regulus."

That had satisfied Mrs. Black's curiosity, but it did not satisfy Harry's.

"I know about the cave. But how did Regulus know? How did he know about the locket?"

A dreadful tale unfolded. Voldemort had required Regulus to supply the services of a house-elf. Undoubtedly, Voldemort had expected Kreacher to die after testing the potion, securing his secret.

"Kreacher was sick...very, very sick when he came home. But the poison didn't kill Kreacher. Not an elf poison. But poor Master Regulus!"

Regulus had studied books, had decided what to do. The Dark Lord was too dangerous, too terrible. He would see Regulus's disloyalty and kill him. So Regulus had taken Kreacher to the cave.

"Kreacher begged not to drink the potion again. Foolish, foolish Kreacher!" Harry had to prevent him from hurting himself. "Master Regulus drank it. But the potion was poison for wizards. Kreacher took him home, but he died." Kreacher wept.

"What about the locket? What happened to it?"

"The dirty wizard stole it! Stole so many things!"

Harry grimaced. "Mundungus."

* * *

**July 19, 1997**

Scrimgeour studied the letter for perhaps the hundredth time.

_I have information vital to your own and the Ministry's security. However, if the wrong person were to become aware, even of the fact that I have contacted you, I will be dead before I can convey this information. Therefore, I request a secret conference. I have included one of a pair of communication mirrors. Should you agree, contact me at 10 o'clock in the morning on the soonest day possible._

_ Chester Nott_

The clock on the bedside table read ten minutes to 10.

It was risky to give the man a hearing. And risky not to.

Damn it, he was the son of a known Death Eater! It could be a ruse, putting the Minister's life at hazard or compromising his reputation.

And yet, if one of the Dark Lord's own had actually turned against him....

Dumbledore had believed that of Severus Snape—it had cost him his life.

Still, it was better to know.

He picked up the mirror, called Nott by name.

"My information is this: the names of certain of the Dark Lord's supporters within the Ministry who intend to put an Imperius'd puppet in your place."

* * *

**August 2, 1997**

Excerpts from _The Daily Prophet_

ARREST AT MINISTRY

Linnaeus Yaxley, 47, Undersecretary in the Department of Unintended Consequences, was arrested today on suspicion of being a Death Eater. Like the recently convicted Death Eaters Lucius Malfoy and Franklin Nott, Yaxley was acquitted of similar charges 15 years ago. Auror Wilfric Savage hinted at a possible connection to the collapse of Pius Thicknesse (see Thicknesse Ill, column 4), leading some to speculate an attempted poisoning. Suspected Death Eater Severus Snape, who was the Potions master at Hogwarts for many years, until he was implicated in the murder of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, remains at large. Ministry officials urge particular caution in eating or drinking anything you have not prepared yourself.

THICKNESSE ILL

We have received reports that Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, is being treated at St. Mungo's Hospital for an unspecified malady. Apparently he collapsed during a private meeting with Minister Rufus Scrimgeour at the Ministry yesterday, but no other details have yet been forthcoming.

MARRIAGE ANNOUNCEMENTS

William Arthur Weasley, 27, of London married Fleur Isabelle Delacour, 20, formerly of Le Cateau, France, on August 1 at the home of his parents at Ottery St. Catchpole.

* * *

**A/N:** The Department of Unintended Consequences was invented by Arsinoe de Blassenville in her story "The Golden Age"--I highly recommend it.

* * *

**August 10, 1997**

"You really mustn't go out, Harry," Molly Weasley insisted. "We'll get the things you need for school."

Harry gritted his teeth. The pretense that he was returning to Hogwarts in September was only an excuse to persuade the Order to allow him to go with Ron and Hermione to Diagon Alley. Mundungus had not dared to show his face at Headquarters this summer. When Harry had denounced the man's thievery, the older members merely looked uncomfortable.

"I don't like it any better than you do," Tonks had told him privately afterward. "But we need the information he provides. Now more than ever, since Snape...."

"I haven't noticed that you've done much about _him_ either. After what he's done—"

"Harry, all of us are just as upset as you! But he's gone to ground. Even Dung—"

"You can't stop me from going out. I could...I could tell the _Prophet_ that the Order is keeping me prisoner. That'll give Scrimgeour a boost, won't it?"

"Harry, wait!" Tonks took a deep breath. "Right...I could get you some Polyjuice Potion. I'll nip some from work. You can pretend to be Remus. But if you get into trouble, so help me...."

"I won't."

* * *

**August 12, 1997**

"Sarah?"

Sarah was usually—and usefully—ignored in Diagon Alley. Now she turned, surprised, to see Angelina Johnson.

"How are you?" Angelina's expression faltered slightly. "Where's your..." she lowered her voice, "baby?"

"At home." _His home, for now_.

"You're not still with...?" Angelina's eyes widened.

Sarah pondered—if Angelina informed on her, she would have to go into hiding altogether. "You don't really want me to answer that question, do you, Angelina?" she asked, her voice laden with menace, coated with ice. "Some things are safer left unspoken. Do you understand?"

It hurt to see the fear in Angelina's eyes.

* * *

**August 12, 1997, later**

Remus Lupin—or someone who looked like him—slipped away from Flourish and Blotts. Ron and Hermione had protested, but Molly would never forgive Remus for taking them into Knockturn Alley.

Remus was not Mr. Borgin's only customer. A young woman a few years older than Harry, but whom he didn't recognize, was examining the items that Borgin had spread out on the counter.

"Belonged to Salazar himself," Borgin was saying.

"Unlikely," she said. "Still, it is a pretty piece." Her finger traced the edge of a large locket with the letter 'S' picked out in green gems.

Harry's breath caught. It would look odd to interrupt. But if she bought the locket....

"Three hundred Galleons?" she offered.

"I couldn't let it go for that," Borgin said. "I couldn't part with it for less than a thousand."

She frowned. "Five hundred?"

"I'll pay a thousand," Harry blurted out.

The young woman turned, meeting his eyes with an expression that was first surprised, then curious, then unfathomable.

"I have a very particular client," Harry said, relying desperately on Remus's recent reputation.

Borgin looked at the young woman, who hesitated, then shook her head.

"I'll wrap it up for you then, sir."

* * *

**August 26, 1997**

"Should we not plan to capture Harry Potter as he returns to Hogwarts, my lord?" Bellatrix asked. She had finally been readmitted to his presence, but her enforced absence from the attack on Hogwarts rankled.

"No, I think not," he snapped; he had not stopped frowning in weeks. "The protections the Ministry has placed around the students will surely be stronger than ever, since that fool, Yaxley, failed in his task."

"But when, my lord?" asked Amycus.

"The Taboo spell remains in place. When he dares again to speak my name outside of wards, I shall go to him myself."

* * *

**August 30, 1997**

"I'm not going back to school! I thought you weren't either."

Hermione frowned. "I know. But I've been thinking. There's only one more Horcrux left to find: the Hufflepuff cup. The diary and the ring have been destroyed, and we still need to find a safe way to destroy the locket and the badge. We can't get at Nagini yet."

"So we have to find the cup!"

"Have you got any idea…the slightest…where to start? Did Professor Dumbledore give you any clues?"

"No. But that's all the more reason we need to begin looking for it now!"

"That doesn't make any sense. We'd just be wandering around. Besides, if we _do_ survive all this…" Hermione hesitated. "Not all of us can live on an inheritance, Harry. And I, for one, would like to have a worthwhile job—the kind you need N.E.W.T.s for."

"She does have a bit of a point, mate," Ron said reluctantly.

"But what about the cup?"

"I think we're going to have to tell the rest of the Order what we're looking for. Not that it's a Horcrux. But that Dumbledore believed it was important."

"So, we just call a meeting?" Harry said dubiously.

* * *

**August 31, 1997**

Harry stared out the windows of the Hogwarts Express, displeased with his change of plans. But the Order—particular Mrs. Weasley—were more than happy to agree, in exchange for Harry continuing at Hogwarts, to search for a Hufflepuff artifact to which Dumbledore had reportedly attached considerable importance.

"They won't find it," he said aloud.

"You never know." Ron shrugged. "Anyway, we couldn't do much good just going around trying to keep out of the way of Death Eaters."

"I don't want to keep out of their way. At least, not out of Snape's way." Harry's face twisted into a mask of hatred.

"You know," Hermione said, "he could have killed you, and he didn't."

"Just saving me for his master."

"Then why not stun you and carry you back to You-Know-Who?" They had finally been told, after the incident at Godric's Hollow, why no one but Dumbledore dared to say Voldemort's name. "Anyway, if you plan to go after him, the question is, could you kill him?"

"You think I'd show him mercy!"

"I meant, are you a better duelist than he is?"

Harry furrowed his brows blackly. One good reason to go back to Hogwarts. "I will be."

* * *

**September 9, 1997**

Walking the razor's edge between enough success to please the Dark Lord and enough failure to prevent ruin was a bitter task. He demanded a demonstration of their latest efforts at an Imperius Potion, for poisoning the water supply.

Severus forced the prisoner to drink. The man toppled, turning blue.

"Get up," Severus ordered.

Horribly, he tried.

"Breathe."

He drew a shuddering breath, but sank again, lifeless. Severus examined him.

"The heart stopped. The potion apparently affects _all_ functions in human subjects, not merely the voluntary. I apologize, Master."

Sarah felt the hand lifted from her hair. "Continue your work."

* * *

**September 13, 1997**

"We need to get the DA going again," Harry said. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is useless."

"As usual," added Ron.

McGonagall had come up with a novel solution to the annual problem. Most classes now included students from all four houses—the drastic shrinking of the student body, with so many parents refusing to allow their children to return to Hogwarts, had made this a logical decision. And most of the professors were teaching a Defense class, in addition to their own subjects. The professor who had taken the seventh years was Slughorn.

"It's not _completely useless_," said Hermione. "We do need to improve our defensive magic."

"But we need to practice dueling spells, offensive magic! We need to practice now, not whenever Slughorn decides we're ready."

"Okay, Harry, I'll get some coins set up again. I don't trust the old ones. We don't know whose hands they might have fallen into."

"Wait, you don't think McGonagall will let us be a regular club?" asked Ron.

"Even if she did, it's better if we keep it secret."

"We don't want anybody on Voldemort's side to know what we're doing," Harry said grimly. "To know that we're ready for him."

* * *

**October 25, 1997**

"Any luck finding the cup?"

Remus and Tonks exchanged glances. Moody snorted. "We've been rather busy with Death Eater attacks, Harry."

"This is important!"

"None of us really specialize in antiques," said Remus.

"Except Dung," added Tonks, grimacing.

"You can't trust him!"

"You're certain it's important?" asked Arthur.

"Professor Dumbledore thought so," Hermione broke in, before Harry could lose his temper. "You-Know-Who murdered somebody for it, nearly 50 years ago. Why would he do that if it weren't an important artifact?

"It wasn't in You-Know-Who's Gringotts vault," Moody said. "Cleared by special order after his disappearance. The goblins certainly didn't like that."

"What did they find?" asked Hermione.

"That's the thing: nothing but money."

"Could he have given this cup to one of his followers for safekeeping?" asked Remus.

"If so, how will we ever find it?" Tonks frowned. "The Aurors can't raid every suspected Death Eater's house, let alone their vaults."

"Perhaps it would help," Arthur said, "if you told us why Dumbledore believed it was so important. That might give us something more to go on."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged desperate looks. Hermione nodded, then Ron. Harry took a breath. "It's not good. Not good at all."

* * *

**October 31, 1997**

The couple arrived in the rainy dark, as heavily cloaked as any of his patrons. Aberforth Dumbledore showed them to a room upstairs.

"What news?" The man threw back his hood to reveal close-cropped hair, a sallow face shadowed by a beard.

"Aside from the fact that you're wanted for killing my brother?" Aberforth growled.

"You sent an owl," said the young woman.

"Would you know anything about a two-handled cup engraved with a badger? Small, gold?" Aberforth gestured an approximate size.

Severus shook his head.

"A Hufflepuff cup?" Sarah whispered.

"You know it?" asked Aberforth.

"Possibly. Why?"

"Listen carefully…."

* * *

**A/N:** It's always bothered me that Mary GrandPre's illustrations of Snape show him with a beard, despite the lack of any basis for that in the text. But I think I've finally come to terms with the possibility of a bearded Snape. :~)

**

* * *

November 1, 1997**

"Seven?" Sarah asked, aghast. The moral of all folklore about the fate of Horcrux-makers was that there really were worse things than death.

"Six. Possibly. I'm unsure how many he completed. _Nor will you make the slightest attempt to learn!_" Severus' eyes were fierce.

"Of course not!"

"Everyone in the inner circle knows there is at least one; that much is safe for you to know." He took a deep breath. "Two certain Horcruxes have been destroyed. Potter believes he has found two, although…." He shook his head. "Two possibilities are within our grasp."

"The cup?"

"And, Albus thought, Nagini."

* * *

**November 5, 1997**

"I think I might have found a way to destroy the locket and the badge," Hermione whispered. The three of them were alone in the Room of Requirement, after a DA meeting, but she was taking no chances. "These books I found at Headquarters, on Horcruxes…it takes powerful magic to destroy one. You have to pierce the container, physically and magically, so the piece of soul will sort of leak out. The Basilisk fang did that to the diary."

"So we need something…poky?" Ron rubbed his chin.

"Or sharp. And magical. I was thinking about Godric Gryffindor's sword."

"Do you think McGonagall will let us use it?" asked Ron, turning to Harry.

"She'd better."

"The problem is," said Hermione, "Horcrux containers are usually cursed. After all, if you'd made one, you wouldn't want someone to be able to destroy it without suffering the consequences."

Harry frowned. "Dumbledore's hand."

"Probably," she confirmed. "But we don't know how he destroyed the ring. And you were able to destroy the diary without being cursed."

"Your mother's protection?" Ron cocked an eyebrow.

"Remember, I don't have that anymore, not since…the night he came back."

"I'll keep working on it, Harry," Hermione promised.

* * *

**November 8, 1997**

"It occurs me," said the Dark Lord, "I have not seen a certain object I once gave your father. A small cup engraved with the symbol of Hufflepuff. I hope your mother did not foolishly cast it away." Sarah bowed her head, terrified that they were discovered, automatically transmuting the emotion into fear that she would be punished for her mother's disloyalty.

"No, Master. It was here until my mother brought me away. But after my father's death…so many of his possessions have disappeared. The Ministry…"

"Yes." Everyone around him still felt his anger at the failure of his coup.

* * *

**November 10, 1997**

"Chester, do you remember that little gold Hufflepuff cup?" Sarah asked. "Was it taken to Notting Chase?"

"Probably, if it was valuable. But why wouldn't your mother have kept a Hufflepuff artifact?"

"Because the Dark Lord gave it to my father."

"And Uncle Malcolm made no secret of where it came from?"

"Exactly." Sarah grimaced. "I haven't seen it here. Can you help me find it, if it survived the fire?"

"What was salvaged was boxed up…" Clearly he wanted to leave it so. "It's important?"

"The Dark Lord wants it." Despite her trust, any other answer was too dangerous.

* * *

**December 13, 1997**

"We've got to try," argued Harry. "And it needs to be me."

McGonagall frowned, looking down at the desk—she still had difficulty thinking of it as _her_ desk—at the sword he had asked her to borrow.

"I agree," said the portrait of Professor Dumbledore.

"But if it damages him, as it damaged you…" she protested.

Harry touched his scar. "There's some kind of bond between us, because of this. The curses may not attack me. And if I'm destined to be the one to destroy him…."

"And what if you're wrong?" Her voice quavered.

"Hermione has charms and a boxful of potions to undo the damage."

McGonagall shook her head. "I don't like, Harry. I don't like it a bit."

Harry let his eyes rove the headmaster's office, wondering if any of the other portraits would back him up. He spied the Sorting Hat on its shelf.

"Professor, if I can draw the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat, wouldn't that _prove_ that I'm supposed to do this?"

That set all the portraits murmuring. "He has a point," said Phineas Nigellus.

"Let him try, Minerva," said Dumbledore's portrait.

"Oh, very well," she sighed.

Harry lifted the Hat.

* * *

**December 14, 1997**

They had decided to try destroying the Horcruxes in the Room of Requirement. If the castle's magic could possibly protect Harry, it would do so there. In spite of the danger of the curses seeking out some other nearby target, Ron and Hermione insisted on remaining with him.

"If the curses do strike you," Hermione reasoned, "you'll need someone to help you."

"We won't let you face this alone," said Ron.

Grateful for his friends at his back, Harry arranged the locket and the badge carefully on the large flat stone that the Room had provided.

"I'm going to try to take out both at once," he said. "In case I don't get a second chance."

He picked up the Sorting Hat. Closing his eyes, he reached inside. _Please_, he thought.

His hand closed on the Sword's hilt; he drew it out. He handed Ron the Hat, so he could wield the Sword. Wishing momentarily that he'd had some experience as a Beater, he lined up his blow.

He lifted the Sword; then, putting every ounce of his will behind it, he brought it down on the two Horcruxes.

The metal screamed, literally. Then there were only the shattered pieces.

* * *

**December 24, 1997**

"Help your Daddy pull the cracker!" Chester urged, while Severus longsufferingly held one end so that Severian could grab the other. The toddler, however, would not oblige. "Boom!" he said, running to pound on Chester's knees.

Sarah heard the flutter of an owl at the window, and rushed to open it, letting in a bedraggled bird and a blast of cold air.

_Two down. No casualties. A.D._

She brought the letter to Severus.

"Bad news?" asked Niniane.

"No." Sarah smiled with such joy as she not known in many months, and slipped her arms around her husband. "Happy Christmas, everyone!"

* * *

**January 7, 1998**

"Still no sign of that cup!" Harry growled. The thrill of his success with the locket and badge had faded as the end of the holidays approached. The Order were having no luck in their quest, and little enough in the war, making their insistence that he remain safely at Hogwarts nearly unbearable. There had been no sightings of Snape, either. If there had been, nothing would have kept Harry from leaving Hogwarts to pursue his revenge. He itched for further action.

"You know," said Hermione, looking up from her book, "it isn't as if you have some deadline."

"You mean, Harry won't be dead by the end of the school year?" Ron grinned.

Harry scowled. "That's what he's always tried to do."

"Be serious," said Hermione. "The only time You-Know-Who actually set out to kill you at school was the Tri-Wizard Tournament."

"What about the diary?" asked Ron.

"My point," she went on, "is that it's silly to think that all of this _has_ to be done before school is out."

"I can't fight him until all the Horcruxes are destroyed," said Harry. "We can't know when he might attack again."

"There's nothing we can do," said Hermione. "Study!"

* * *

**January 16, 1997**

"_Accio Hufflepuff Cup!_" Sarah stood among the cold, wet ashes of Notting Chase. Chester's searches had come to nothing. This was the only remaining hope.

A faint sound answered. She followed it, repeating the spell when it faded. It took more spells to lift the collapsed timbers that trapped the charred box in which it lay.

It was just as she remembered it, if a bit smaller to her adult eyes. She recognized, too, when she touched it, the taint of her Dark Master's presence in it, quiescent, like Nagini sleeping.

"Your power to hurt anyone will end," she whispered.

* * *

**January 16, 1997, later**

"If we give it to him, he may place it beyond our reach."

"I don't dare to keep it. If he sees it in my thoughts…"

"Then we destroy it, tonight."

"I won't lose you to a curse!"

"Albus was incautious. He cracked the ring with a spell."

"Then how…?" Sarah frowned. "I suppose we could send it to Potter…"

"No!" Severus snarled. "Mithric Acid. Unfortunately…." His brows furrowed. "Thus far, he has been unaware of the Horcruxes' destruction. But thus far, they have all been destroyed within the wards of Hogwarts. The dungeon would be—"

"That's madness!"

"Perhaps."

* * *

**January 16, 1997, later still**

The headmistress lifted the wards on the Floo, fearful she was making a mistake. Severus's Patronus message had taken her aback, in more ways than one.

He stepped out of the fireplace. "Minerva."

"Aberforth told me, and Albus's portrait, but I…"

"I need one hour in my old quarters. If I haven't returned, do whatever you feel is necessary."

His rooms were bare of all but what might prove useful to some future Potions master. That was all he needed. He set up a cauldron in the workroom, and began compounding the acid.

When it was ready, he suspended the cup above it with a string. From the doorway, he cut it with a spell, slamming the wall closed as the cup dropped. Even through the wall, he heard the echo of the scream.

Minerva paced, her uncertainty growing. What was his business here? If Aberforth was wrong, Severus might do anything. Even attack Harry.

She stepped through the Floo into the Gryffindor Common Room. Late as it was, Harry and his friends were talking there. "Thank goodness!"

"What's wrong?" Harry rose, gripping his wand.

Minerva paused. "Severus Snape is here. But Harry…"

Harry did not stay for an explanation.

* * *

**January 17, 1997, very early**

Snape, meagerly disguised by a beard, emerged from the dungeon stairwell, just as Harry stormed into the entrance hall.

"How dare you come here? _Expelliarmus_!"

Snape dodged the spell. "Still a fool, Potter? Strike before you speak!"

_Crucio!_ Harry drove the thought at his enemy.

Snape, waving off the spell a fraction of a second late, bent double. "Better, Potter," he gasped.

Before Harry could react, before Ron or Hermione, coming up behind him, could do more than begin their spells, the traitor's wand slashed the air. Harry discovered he could not move. But Snape remained where he was, breathing hard.

"Coward!" Harry forced between his teeth. "Murderer!" Suddenly he found himself suspended by the ankle, his wand clattering to the floor, movement slowly returning to his limbs.

"Think, Potter!" The hated face, both strange and familiar at once, hovered under his own. "For once in your life, consider _why_ I do what I do!"

At the sound of many approaching footsteps, Snape turned and fled to the main door. It closed behind him. He was gone.

"No!" Harry shouted. "Stop him!" Freed, he seized his wand, rushing for the door.

"No, Harry!" McGonagall called. But it was too late.

* * *

**January 17, 1997, later**

Ron and Hermione found Harry at the Hog's Head, brooding over a table near the fireplace, ignoring the tavern's disturbing array of late-night denizens.

"He must have gone through the Floo, but no one will admit seeing him, or hearing where he was going. I sent a Patronus message to Shacklebolt."

"They'll never catch up with him," said Hermione.

"I don't think we should stay here, Harry," said Ron, looking around.

"Your friend's right," said the barkeeper, looming over the table. Suddenly Harry realized why he had always seemed familiar. "You're Aberforth Dumbledore. Why did you let him go!"

"Not everything's what it seems, Harry Potter. Especially not here. Which is why I advise you to get back inside the wards of Hogwarts."

"He's right, Harry," said Hermione. "You-Know-Who wants you lured out in the open."

"That's probably why Snape was here," growled Ron.

Hermione frowned. "Except that…. Look, we'd just better leave."

"I'll go to Headquarters," Harry said stubbornly.

"And do what? Running around hunting for Snape is going to do nothing but get you killed. Are you going throw away everything, everyone's sacrifices, for that?"

"Go," said Aberforth. "Now."

"Come on, Harry." Ron pulled him to his feet.

* * *

**January 17, 1998, later still**

Letting go was hard, but he was clearly exhausted. Sarah urged him into a chair.

Severus shut his eyes. "He's getting better at dueling."

"Does that matter now? If we act at the right moment, we can kill Nagini _and_—"

"No."

"_Why?_"

"The prophecy—"

"I thought you didn't believe—"

"Do you really want to take the risk, Sarah?" he snarled. "Nagini may or may not be cursed in the same manner as other Horcruxes. It may require a magical weapon to kill her. Until Potter faces the Dark Lord—"

"Will he, not knowing about the cup?"

* * *

**January 18, 1998**

"Why did you let him in! Why did Aberforth let him go!" Harry glared from McGonagall to the other assembled Order members.

"Harry," Remus said quietly. "Some of us believe…well, that Snape _may_ not be a traitor."

Moody snorted. "Once a Death Eater, always—"

"He hasn't tried to breach the wards at Headquarters. Not once," Tonks interrupted.

"HE MURDERED PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE!"

"Perhaps no one told you this," McGonagall said hesitantly. "Albus was already dying. His cursed injury—"

"What has that got to do with ANYTHING!" Harry felt his chest tighten. It troubled him, in dark moments, that even without the attack that night, Dumbledore might still have died from the potion Harry had forced him to drink. _Only if Snape had failed him!_ _I didn't know_, Harry fought the idea down as usual. _He made me promise!_

"Have you never considered," asked Arthur, "that Snape might have done what Albus asked him to do?"

"No one asks to be murdered! He BEGGED Snape up on the tower!"

"Begged him to do what?"

Harry glowered.

"Well?"

"Just begged him!" Harry said stubbornly. "To save him, obviously!"

"How?" Remus frowned. "With all those other Death Eaters up on the tower?"

* * *

**January 19, 1998**

"Harry, there's nothing you can do about it right now." Ginny touched his shoulder.

"We've missed something." Aurors and Order both had scoured Hogwarts, finding no evidence of harm, magical or otherwise. "Voldemort came and put a curse on the Dark Arts position. I'll bet Snape's done something like that. Something that'll show up when we least expect it."

Ginny didn't answer. Finally she said, "Harry, I keep thinking…. I don't care about the danger—"

"No, Ginny. We just can't."

"But—"

A spectral shape darted through the wall, too small for a ghost. A small silver badger peered at him; it was a Patronus.

"_Harry Potter_." An unfamiliar female voice emerged from the mouth of the badger. "_Listen and think_."

"What—?" It vanished. "Who—? I don't know anyone with a badger Patronus."

"I thought only Order members knew how to send Patronus messages?"

"Yes, Dumbledore invented that part of the spell."

They were still staring at the wall when another silvery form emerged. Harry's heart leapt, even as his mind screamed, _Dumbledore's dead!_ It was a phoenix.

"_The cup has been destroyed_." It, too, vanished. But the hated voice echoed in Harry's ears.

"THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE!"

* * *

**January 20, 1998**

The Dark Lord was angry. "Why did you lure Potter out without my permission?"

"My lord, forgive me. It was a whim. I wished to retrieve a small object I was forced to flee Hogwarts without. I sought to test the wards. Encountering Potter was merely fortuitous—but his willingness to pursue me demonstrates how easy it will be to bring him to you at the right time and place."

"And you think he will be as easily fooled now?"

Sarah had never before watched him Crucio her husband.

_Serves you right_, she thought, to hide her silent, unsheddable tears.

* * *

**January 24, 1998**

"Professor Slughorn?" Harry had lagged behind at the Slug Club meeting.

"Yes? What is it, Harry?" He smiled, a rarer expression than the year before.

"Is it possible to fake a Patronus?"

Only Ron and Hermione knew about the messages. Harry had only told them because Ginny threatened to tell them herself. Hermione's pensive expression was maddening, as was the dearth of information from her research.

"Fake a Patronus?" Slughorn was puzzled. "I'm not sure why anyone would want to. It would have nothing of the protective properties—"

"I know. But if, for some reason, someone wanted to make an _illusion_ of a Patronus, could they?"

"Well, you see the problem is that illusion spells almost always need to be tied physically in some way to the object you're concealing. And a Patronus… it's a projection of something in one's soul. There's really nothing to work with in terms of illusions."

Harry frowned at the answer.

"And there's no way to purposely change the form of your Patronus? Make it look like what you want it to look like?"

"Not consciously, no." Slughorn was also frowning now. "Is there a particular situation you're thinking of?"

"No. Thanks anyway, Professor."

* * *

**January 31, 1998**

"What if Potter didn't believe you?" _What if he did?_ So much had gone wrong…so much might yet go wrong. If the Dark Lord glimpsed any part of the truth in her mind, or Severus's, or—worst of all—Potter's….

Dumbledore had believed that the Dark Lord would avoid Potter's mind in future. It was a gamble she wouldn't have taken—not with the information the boy carried about Horcruxes in his all-too-unprotected head. At least Harry's prejudice had always protected Severus. But now….

Severus grimaced. "The Dark Lord will confront him, whether Potter thinks himself prepared or not."

* * *

**February 5, 1998**

"Harry, please tell us," Ginny begged. She looked to Neville and Luna for support. "We can't help if—"

"Half the Order knows, and it hasn't helped! If somebody's captured—"

"They've kept in hiding," Hermione reminded him.

"Even if that lets the Death Eaters do as they please," Ron growled. The day's news had been worse than usual.

"Ginny's right, though," said Neville. "We'll stand by you through anything, Harry. But it would help to know… whatever the truth is."

"If Harry thinks we really shouldn't know—" said Luna.

"I think we should tell them," said Hermione. "It isn't as if they're in any more danger than Ron and I are."

"Finally, someone with sense!" said Ginny. "I've been trying to tell him all year, if You-Know-Who is going to target anyone, it'll be his known best friends, not the girl he's just started dating."

Hermione whispered, "Dumbledore said your power was your ability to love. When you shut people out… don't trust people who love you… I don't think that's what he would have wanted. Actually, it worries me."

Harry's instinctive protest died unspoken, choked by a sudden, impossible possibility of truth. "Give me… time to think."

* * *

**February 7, 1998**

Harry had not come up the Astronomy Tower since Dumbledore's death. Now he leaned on the rampart as his tears dried, the revived pain of his memories easing slightly, leaving confused anger.

"Harry?"

Ginny. He wanted to shout "leave!" but somehow couldn't. She slipped up and linked her hand in his.

"You… don't think Hermione's right about me, do you?" He had not spoken to Hermione in two days. That had happened before, he realized, and would probably happen again.

It was a long time before Ginny spoke, distantly. "When our parents were our age, it was the same as it is now—You-Know-Who, Death Eaters. And they didn't let that stop them from loving… marrying… having _us_."

"It _is_ different—Voldemort's determined to kill _me_."

Ginny shrugged. "And you're determined to kill him." She took a slow breath. "Harry, you've been… different the last few weeks. Even since last year. Hermione's right—you're holding onto hate and rejecting love. That can't be good."

Tears came anew. He tried to focus on Snape, on Voldemort, but instead his mind conjured his parents, the Weasleys, Remus and Tonks.

Without quite realizing how, he was kissing Ginny, his heart surprisingly, powerfully alive.

* * *

**February 20, 1998**

"I've been thinking this through _logically_," said Hermione. "The first question is, has the Hufflepuff Cup been destroyed or not?"

"You think—" Harry began heatedly.

"Listen, Harry!" said Ginny.

"_If_ so, the only Horcrux left—"

"—is Nagini," put in Neville.

Hermione nodded. "But if Snape lied, the next question is, _why?_"

"Obviously, to trick—"

"Harry, if Snape knows about the Horcruxes—"

"He must," said Luna, "or he wouldn't have mentioned destroying the cup."

"Exactly. So… either he's told You-Know-Who, which means there'll be more Horcruxes or something, and _nothing_ you do is going to matter. Or," Hermione went on, as Harry frowned deeply, "if Snape _hasn't_ told him, that means Snape, regardless of what he's done or how much you hate him, _may_ still be on our side. Either way, we have to decide how to proceed. If we assume that You-Know-Who knows about the Horcruxes, how can we even begin to find out what other precautions he's taken?

"I don't know." Harry looked defeated.

"But if we assume You-Know-Who _doesn't_ know, then logically we also have to assume that Snape wasn't lying about the cup."

"So," said Neville, "just Nagini."

Harry sighed. "And Voldemort."

* * *

**March 4, 1998**

When Harry and Ginny arrived early for the DA meeting, Harry was surprised to see Ron and Hermione emerging from inside the Room of Requirement. Hermione was frowning.

Harry shot Ron an embarrassed, questioning glance, not sure he wanted to know, but Ron merely shrugged.

"It's not there," said Hermione.

"What's not where?" Harry asked.

"Snape's Potions book."

"Wait a minute," Harry began, "you're the one who didn't want _me_ using it!"

"Bit of a hypocrite?" added Ginny, sneering.

"That's before I knew it was Snape's. Look," Hermione said, "I don't suppose you ever noticed that he _always_ wrote our instructions on the board. Our Potions books in the lower years were all theory."

"She wants an 'O' on her Potions N.E.W.T. is all," explained Ron. Earlier in the week, Slughorn had assigned student labs for beginning their exam preparations. Harry had been trying not to think too hard about Slughorn's puzzled disappointment with his skills this year, or how he was going to pass his exam without recourse to the book he had refused to retrieve, knowing the identity of its owner.

"I wasn't going to keep it to myself!" Hermione protested. "But it doesn't matter, because it's gone!"

* * *

**March 6, 1998**

It was nearly midnight when Harry slipped into the seventh-floor corridor alone. In spite of Hermione's insistence that she'd given the room the right instructions, Harry couldn't believe that the book wasn't still where he had hidden it. Maybe Snape _had_ taken it when he'd come back, as Ron had suggested. But he had to know for sure.

"Oh, it's you," a distressed voice said from beyond his wand's light. As he stepped forward, one of the last people he wanted to see came into view. Professor Trelawney had her hands behind her back, but Harry could hear the clinking of bottles.

"It's all right," Harry said, making the best of it. "I'm going in as well."

He started to work the entrance, but there was a bell-like, crashing clatter.

"_Beware!_" said a harsh voice.

"Oh, no," muttered Harry, turning. Trelawney's eyes were rolling, her body stiffening.

"_Beware the Dark Lord's mark upon the champion. So long as he bears it, the Dark Lord cannot die. But if the Dark Lord's protectors are destroyed, his hatred shall make his blood burn. Then he shall fall, he shall perish_."

Harry's mind reeled.

"Oh, dear." Trelawney blinked, looking around. "I'm dreadfully clumsy."

* * *

**March 7, 1998**

"Let me get this straight," said Ron. "We've got to kill _all_ the Death Eaters, especially Snape, before you can kill You-Know-Who?"

"I'm not sure that's what the prophecy means at all," said Luna. "I mean, Snape isn't really anyone's champion, is he?"

"It's got to be someone with the Dark Mark," said Harry, grimacing. "And Snape was certainly Voldemort's champion against Dumbledore."

Luna pondered. "It sounds more as if you've got to cut it off Snape's arm, you know?"

"Oh, that's silly," said Ginny.

"Do you really think that 'protectors' means the Death Eaters?" asked Hermione doubtfully.

"It could mean the… you-know, Horcruxes," said Neville. "We already know that's what protects him from dying."

"Could a Dark Mark be used as a Horcrux?" Luna was still lost in thought. "I mean, if a snake could be a Horcrux, maybe a person—"

"Snape's a Horcrux?"

"But that would mean that Snape is _controlled_ by You-Know-Who," said Hermione, "which leaves us with the problem of You-Know-Who knowing that we're trying to destroy his Horcruxes. Which means the game is up."

"But if the cup _was_ a ruse—" Harry protested.

"Harry, this new prophecy didn't say _anything_ about the cup."

* * *

**March 16, 1998**

"Something bothers me," Severus said. "This badge Potter found. It's small enough for the Dark Lord to have concealed it from me that night. However, his body was destroyed before completing the Horcrux spell using Harry's death. Albus dismissed a possible Horcrux there partly for that reason, along with the missing wand."

"Maybe he hasn't made all six? Maybe he's waiting to kill Potter absolutely."

"Possibly. But Albus once told me that Harry would likely have to die to defeat the Dark Lord. I believed he was making a gruesome joke, trying to jolly me along. Now I'm not certain…."

* * *

**April 2, 1998**

"I've been thinking," Harry said. He pulled Ginny closer. "Don't tell anyone yet. I'm thinking I should confront Voldemort during the holiday."

"Harry, no!"

"I can't put it off forever. If Hermione's right, and the cup's been destroyed, then what is there to wait for?"

"We're still not sure what the prophecy means!"

"One thing's certain, I can't fulfill it _here_."

"I thought you were going to wait until after exams…."

"I can't stand doing _nothing_ any longer, Ginny! If I live to sit N.E.W.T.s, I'd rather do it knowing that I have a future, that Voldemort's dead."

Ginny was silent for a long time, her head buried against his chest. Finally she looked up. "So, what's the plan?"

"You're not coming!"

"You think you can stop me? We're all coming, actually. Do you think any of your friends would let you do this alone?"

Harry's frown deepened, and he looked away. "I'll need the Sword of Gryffindor, to kill Nagini."

"You'll need to _find_ Nagini."

"I have an idea."

"Trying to contact Snape?"

"No! But we know another Death Eater. One who'd probably like to hand me over to Voldemort himself. And his friends are still here at Hogwarts."

* * *

**April 3, 1998**

"Crabbe!"

The tall, burly young man turned, already scowling. "What do you want, Potter?"

"You still talk to Draco Malfoy?"

"You think we'd admit that?" He glanced over at Goyle, who sneered appreciatively.

"I don't care what you admit. I want to talk to him."

"And just how are we supposed to arrange that? Assuming we could?"

"Sounds like some ruddy trap," Goyle put in.

Harry tossed a gold coin at Crabbe, who grabbed at it, but failed to catch it.

"You think you can bribe me, Potter?" Crabbe said, but he bent to scrabble on the floor for it all the same. "Hey, this isn't a real Galleon."

"I never said it was. It's got a Protean Charm. If Draco wants to talk to me, he can set up a time for a Floo Call with that."

"You still haven't said anything about why he'd want to."

"I have unfinished business with...." Harry stared hard at Crabbe, as if daring him to guess. "You know. His _master_." Harry made the word sound like something he'd found in a rubbish bin. "If Draco wants a chance to benefit from it, he'll contact me. Soon," he added. "The sooner the better."

* * *

**April 4, 1998**

"Professor McGonagall, it's...." Harry paused. "It's time."

"What do you mean, Harry?" But her expression suggested she understood all too well.

"I've got to face Voldemort."

"But your studies—" she broke off. "What's happened? Why now?"

He described the Patronus message and Trelawney's third prophecy.

"I wish you'd told me before," McGonagall fretted. "The phoenix Patronus was certainly Snape's. But—"

"You're certain?" Harry frowned.

"Yes."

Harry's curiosity overwhelmed him. "Do you know whose Patronus the badger was?"

McGonagall pursed her lips, her eyes hardening. "That's not important for you to know." Before he could protest, she went on, "Do you want me to contact the Order?"

He didn't, but he knew he couldn't prevent them from becoming involved. "Tell them to stand by for my instructions." The words seemed to settle on him like a mantle, and Harry felt that, without having intended it, he had become their leader. "What I need now is access to your Floo. I'm expecting a call soon. I'm not sure just when."

McGonagall nodded. "Very well."

"I'm also going to need the Sword of Gryffindor again. For the last Horcrux."

"You do realize what a precious artifact—"

"Okay, the Sorting Hat?"

* * *

**April 8, 1998**

A blond head emerged from the flames.

"What you do want, Potter?" Draco sneered, but his eyes were wide.

"I'm a little surprised to see you alive," Harry said. "I thought you'd have been punished after Snape had to do your job for you."

"You _were_ there! Why didn't you—"

"You're not in your master's favor, are you?" Harry interrupted. When Draco scowled, he went on, "Would you like to be?"

"Why should you care?"

"I don't," Harry said. "But I want to meet with him, and I thought you might be interested in helping to arrange that."

"Meet with him? What does that mean?" Draco asked suspiciously.

"I have something of his. Dumbledore took me to find it the night he died. It was in a cave by the sea."

Draco looked at him blankly.

"He'll know what it means. Tell him.…" Harry braced himself, noticeably. "Tell him that I've been trying ever since to destroy it, and I've realized that I can't. Tell him that.…" Harry took another deep breath. "That I've finally realized that I can't defeat him. That I'm prepared to bow before him. Tell him I'll return the object in exchange for my life."

* * *

**April 9, 1998**

"This is an insane idea!" said Ron.

"He won't walk into a trap like that," added Hermione.

"I think he will," said Harry. "He'll check the cave first, but when he finds the locket gone, he'll realize that to get the Horcrux back, he'll have to talk on my terms."

"Why should he care about _one_ Horcrux?"

"He's already lost the diary. And the locket is more than just a Horcrux. It's proof of his link to Salazar Slytherin."

"But really," said Neville, "won't he take precautions? I mean, won't the Death Eaters be lying in wait to take you prisoner?"

"You can't believe he won't kill you on sight!" asked Hermione.

"I've arranged it so he'll have to come to me. The Order will be there, some hidden, some visible."

"And all of us!" said Luna.

"Of course." Ginny smiled dangerously.

"It'll probably turn into a battle," Harry warned. "I don't like it, but I don't see how else to manage it. But I think he'll want to gloat over me first. And to get the locket back."

"Problem, Harry," said Ron. "The real locket is gone."

"I have Regulus's decoy. And I know an expert in creating illusions."

* * *

**April 11, 1998**

After an unsuccessful attempt by Crabbe and Goyle to steal the locket, which was safely in Dobby's possession, the message came from Draco. Harry had waited for it before he told the Order about his plan.

Their reaction was no better than Harry's friends' had initially been. But now there was no choice. If Harry did not meet with Voldemort as agreed, there was no telling how far the Dark Lord might go. Even if Hogwarts remained unassailable, there were other ways of punishing Harry for his insolence, through the suffering of others who were not so fortunate as to live behind warded walls. And Harry could not remain inside Hogwarts forever.

Harry felt a twinge of guilt for persuading Slughorn to work the illusion spell on the locket without being told its purpose. But he wasn't sure, watching his professor ponder the drawings Hermione had made, that Slughorn didn't have his suspicions. Regardless of what the man inferred, the results of his spell were flawless and, he assured Harry, guaranteed to last for at least a week.

_It only needs to last through tomorrow_, thought Harry. _It only needs to fool Voldemort long enough for the plan to work_.

* * *

**April 12, 1998**

The kiss was long ... possibly final.

The Death Eaters had been summoned to the Dark Lord's meeting with Harry Potter. Each side would assuredly try to double-cross the other. A man caught between them would have no friends, only foes.

Sarah pressed a vial of golden liquid into his hand. "I've been making this, secretly. I had a feeling...." Her voice trembled. "_Don't die_."

Startled approval was mingled with disquiet in his dark eyes. She'd acted without his authorization. A perfect potion. Even with it, he might never see her again. "I will do what I must."

"You always do."

* * *

**The Final Battle**

Harry stepped into the clearing he had chosen in the Forbidden Forest, far enough from all the known dangers to hope that nothing would interfere with the outcome except wizards and fate.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Arthur Weasley, and Hagrid stood openly on this side of the clearing. Moody, Remus, and Bill Weasley were hidden under Invisibility Cloaks; they would choose whatever positions seemed best to them at any given moment, both protected and endangered by the fact that they could not be seen. Tonks, too heavily pregnant, had been ordered to remain inside Hogwarts. But most of the other Order members, as well as Hermione, Luna, and Ginny, were in place among the trees nearby. And walking close beside Harry, concealed by his own Invisibility Cloak, were Neville and Ron, with the Sword of Gryffindor; they planned to flip a coin for the chance to use it.

"Are you ready?" Harry whispered. He was not certain that he was ready himself. But the longer he waited, the more likely it was that spying Death Eaters would report their position and movements, giving the enemy time to plan their own counterattack.

"As we're going to get," mumbled Ron.

"Let's do this, Harry," said Neville.

Harry took a deep breath. It felt like the deepest he had ever taken in his life. It might be very nearly his last.

"Voldemort!" he shouted, and again, "Voldemort!"

The syllables echoed across the clearing, and across whatever powerful, far-ranging spell Voldemort had managed to cast, long ago, to make everyone in Britain afraid to speak his name.

One by one, in quick succession, Death Eaters appeared in the clearing. Their wands were raised to strike instantly, if need be, and their movements were furtive. Under the broad light of day, their masks and hoods appeared more grotesque than terrifying. Harry wondered which was Snape.

"Put your wands away!" shouted one. Harry could not mistake her voice; it had haunted him in dreams. Bellatrix Lestrange.

"They are away," Harry shouted in return. "Where is your master?"

"Here I am, Harry Potter," said a high, sinuous voice behind him, as Harry's scar began to throb.

Harry whipped around, taking a step back, trying to adjust his plans to the unexpected alteration in position. He was caught between Voldemort and the Death Eaters; the fact that Voldemort was now between Harry and his concealed friends did very little to make him feel better. But his heart leapt when he saw that Nagini was draped around Voldemort's shoulders, like some vast muffler.

"You've brought your friends as well, I see," Voldemort said.

Harry forced his eyes down, away from those blood-red orbs. Snape had warned him about the danger of allowing Voldemort to see his emotions, but his fear—for his friends, for himself—was his only possible shield now.

Voldemort began to pace around Harry and his friends (circling them on the side _away_ from Hagrid, Harry noted). "Really, I'm surprised that you would want them to witness your utter defeat."

"The defeat is shared," Shacklebolt spoke up. "Does Harry's surrender alone satisfy you? His capitulation necessitates the surrender of the entire wizarding world."

"You speak for the Ministry, then?" Voldemort asked, clearly surprised.

"I speak for the Order of the Phoenix," said Shacklebolt. "But the Ministry will not last long when both Harry and the Order have bowed to your might."

"So," Voldemort continued pacing, studying Harry and his friends coldly, until he stood with his Death Eaters behind him, "you have come to recognize the futility of your resistance?"

"Albus Dumbledore gave me an impossible task," Harry said hoarsely, focusing on the pain in his scar. "He told me that you had a Horcrux. He told me what that meant. He thought you'd probably made more than one. He found one and destroyed it—the ring." He saw Voldemort flinch slightly at this. "We found another one the night he was murdered."

"How amusing. You realize, of course, that the potion protecting the locket would have killed him regardless. It would appear, Draco," Voldemort raised his voice slightly, as if to make it carry to those behind him, "that Dumbledore was fated to die by Severus' efforts, one way or the other. It seems I must forgive you."

"Thank you, master," gasped a mask-muffled voice near the back; the youth sounded more terrified than grateful.

Harry, on the other hand, felt as if the words had placed his heart in a vise, which was wringing forth guilt and fury in equal measure. _Snape made that terrible, torturous potion! I should have guessed!_ But it was Harry who had guaranteed Dumbledore's death by following his orders, by making him drink again and again….

_Snape could have saved him!_ Harry thought desperately. But for the first time, he felt a cold assurance inside, answering that it was not so.

_I can't afford to lose control, not now! That's what he wants. That's why he's telling me_.

"It was all for nothing!" Harry let the tears creep into his voice. "I don't know how he destroyed the ring, but I haven't been able to destroy the locket."

"And so, you have realized at last that it is impossible to defeat me. And you wish to… 'bow before me,' was it?" There was a note of sarcasm in the words, an edge of disbelief that made Harry wonder if the ruse had somehow already been discovered. "In exchange for your life?"

"I can't vanquish you. The prophecy's failed. I don't want to die for nothing!"

"Of course, not," Voldemort said, scornfully soothing. "You've been a coward from the beginning, Harry. And who could blame you. A mere boy, coddled and protected by Albus Dumbledore, never permitted to act on your own."

Harry felt rage rising in his chest, words rising in his throat, _don't call me_— A jolt of memory shook him, and he took a shuddering breath, then forced his shoulders to bend further, forcing his mind back to the pain in his scar.

"I'm acting now. Choosing now. I'm giving you the locket in exchange for my life. I'll tell the Minister of Magic, the whole wizarding world, that you've won." Hoping it wasn't too soon, Harry dropped to knees, bowing deeply.

"No, Harry! Yeh can't!" Hagrid moaned. He had been told very little of the real plan, out of concern that Voldemort's Legilimency, in combination with Hagrid's open nature, might work better than other magic did against giants. He sounded convincingly distressed, Harry thought, half ruefully.

Unexpectedly, the sound of voices and a scuffle broke out in the forest behind him, and Harry looked up in alarm. Had someone misunderstood? _It's not time yet!_

"Why, Harry," Voldemort said, and with a note of mocking disappointment, "did you really need to bring quite so many friends?"

From the trees emerged Hermione, Luna, and—to Harry's horror—Ginny, held at wandpoint by Death Eaters.

"My dear young ladies," Voldemort greeted them. Harry noticed that Nagini was moving restlessly now around her master's shoulders. "Have you come to carry your young, foolish hero away to Avalon?"

"We came to see that you didn't double-cross Harry," Luna said matter-of-factly.

"Not, then, to double-cross _me_?" Voldemort laughed, a high, horrible sound. As if her rest had been disturbed, Nagini slid quietly to the ground. "But I need no promises of Harry's in order to obtain the locket."

The wand movement was so sudden that it took Harry a moment to realize that he was still alive, that the flurry against his chest was only the locket being jerked away from its place of concealment in his robes.

It was happening too suddenly. It wouldn't take long, Harry feared, for Voldemort to see through the illusion, once the locket was in his hands. Or to read the truth in Harry's thoughts, once his attention was focused again on his young enemy. _Not now!_ Harry thought in despair. Not while Ginny stood there, so terribly, dangerously exposed. But there was no other choice. If not now, it would be too late.

"Sirius Black!" he shouted. He had chosen that name as the signal, in part to honor his godfather, in part to confuse any of the Death Eaters—particularly Bellatrix—who might momentarily believe that Sirius had not died after all.

He didn't have time to see whether it had confused anyone. The plan was in motion. In an instant, Ron had thrown the Invisibility Cloak over Harry.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" howled Voldemort, too late.

Harry rolled right, while Ron dodged left, as a flash of green light struck the ground between them. Before it had faded, Harry was whipping out his wand.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Ron got the spell off a moment before Harry did. Voldemort blocked Ron's attack, but was caught by Harry's. His wand—not the wand he had used before, Harry noticed, in the strange slow-down clarity of battle—flew up in an arc. Not quite ready to lose the protection of the cloak, especially with magical duels now raging all around the clearing, Harry let the wand fall on the ground in front of him.

Before it landed, there was a shrill scream. Neville had brought the Sword of Gryffindor down on Nagini. Or rather, through her. Her head lay on the ground at his feet, while her body writhed, and that terrible Horcrux death-cry split the air.

But Neville was writhing and screaming, too, clutching at his arm. The Sword fell from his grasp.

And another scream became part of the sound—a scream that felt as if it were splitting Harry's head—a wail of despair from Voldemort that quickly turned into a scream of rage.

"_Sectumsempra!_" Harry yelled, fighting back the pain, surging to his feet. Ron had turned to deal with an attacker behind him, but Harry's only thought was to kill Voldemort. All his friends were pursuing individual battles with Death Eaters. If no one had yet managed to identify Snape and do something about him, or at least his Dark Mark… well, that would have to wait. At this point, it couldn't matter in what order all the bits of Voldemort were destroyed.

_Could it?_

To Harry's surprise and shock, the spell had no effect on Voldemort. He cast it again, and then Voldemort was laughing.

Suddenly, Harry felt the Invisibility Cloak pulled away from behind. He twisted around. It was Peter Pettigrew, looking pleased with his own cleverness. In an instant, he had Harry's wand, and Harry had been flung back to the ground, immobilized by a freezing hex. Peter's silver hand was, Harry realized, disturbingly covered with gore.

"Bring my wand to me!" ordered Voldemort, gesturing to the ground where it lay.

"Peter, no!" Harry begged. "I let you live!"

Peter looked down at him, suddenly frowning.

"Wormtail, now!" Voldemort demanded sharply.

Peter's frown became a scowl. He began to step over Harry, then suddenly stumbled and fell as one of the many spells flying around the clearing hit him.

Out of the corner of Harry's eye, he saw Ron in motion. The Sword of Gryffindor was in his hand. Just as Harry heard Hermione's shout of "_Finite!_" and felt the binding spell fall away, Ron plunged the Sword through Voldemort.

Again, horribly, Voldemort laughed. He snatched Ron's wand and, with a hiss, sent Ron and the Sword sprawling. There was only a trace of blood around what should have been a fatal wound.

Harry was trying once more to scramble to his feet, but as Voldemort turned, shrugging off Hermione's Stunner, the blood-red eyes fixed on Harry, and Harry knew that he was going to die. _Damn Snape_, he thought. _Damn him to hell!_

"_Expelliarmus!_" It was as if Harry's thought had conjured that hated voice. But that made as little sense as did Ron's stolen wand flying in an arc from Voldemort's hand into the hand of the Death Eater who had broken from the thick of battle and come up behind his dark master.

It clearly did not make sense to Voldemort, either, who whirled to see which of his servants had so drastically missed his aim. "Severus!"

Snape removed his mask. Whatever Voldemort saw there did not please him. He screamed again with rage, raising his hands, as if to throw some wandless blast of power at the man. But Snape moved faster. Thin cords streamed from Snape's wand, binding the Dark Lord, sharpening the pain in Harry's head.

Snape turned to look at Harry. Suddenly his wand slashed out. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Harry could not understand why he was not dead, until he saw Peter—who had risen unseen to his feet, with the Invisibility Cloak pulled part way over his head and his wand raised—falling backward with a thump.

"We must hurry!" Snape rushed forward. Harry flinched backward automatically. "The binding won't hold him long."

"It's you!" Harry shouted, not quite sure what he meant, as the thought of Snape's Dark Mark swam in his mind. "Or was it him?" Harry looked around, confused, at the corpse of the little man who had broken faith with Harry's parents. "But then—"

"It is _you!_" Snape shouted, as if he understood exactly. _Exactly wrong?_

Snape turned abruptly, stunning a Death Eater who had noticed the Dark Lord's predicament. "Assuming," Snape breathed, returning his attention to Harry, "that some other Horcrux hasn't escaped our notice."

"Harry's not a Horcrux!" Hermione said, baffled. Her wand trembled, as if she could not decide whether she should use it against Snape or not.

"I suppose, Miss Know-it-all, you have deduced some other explanation for the Dark Lord's failure to die?"

"But the prophecy," stammered Harry, "'the Dark Lord's mark.' As long as the champion…." Abruptly, the pieces fell into place.

"It was not the Death Eaters alone the Dark Lord marked, Potter." Snape dodged suddenly as a curse flew at him from another of his masked companions who, in some pause of battle, had realized that things were going very wrong.

"My master!" wailed Bellatrix, rushing toward the prone form. "Traitor!" she screamed, raising her wand again to fire at Snape. But she was too late. Her wand was jerked from her hand, and she was thrown backward, as two colliding disarming spells hit her—Snape's and, unexpectedly, Luna's. She was, Harry noticed for the first time, kneeling beside Neville's body.

Hermione took out another Death Eater, distracted by the realization of the apparent fall of his leader, giving them another moment of breathing room. But Harry felt as if he could not move, as his mind worked desperately to find some other answer than the one Snape had offered.

Snape was speaking again. "He made preparations to create a Horcrux that night—"

"The badge—" Harry said, while the throbbing pain in his scar seemed to hammer the truth deeper with every blow.

"Was never used! It was your death with which he intended to create it as a Horcrux."

"But how could Harry have become—?" protested Hermione.

"Does it matter? Whatever will the Dark Lord possessed to create a Horcrux might well have been focused at the last thing at which he pointed his wand."

"Me," Harry said hollowly, hardly noticing that Ginny had come up beside him. "I was right all along. You _were_ trying to kill me."

"Stupid boy—" Snape began, but a howl of rage from the previously silent Voldemort interrupted him. Fortunately, Kingsley Shacklebolt had become aware of the situation, and was standing guard over Voldemort's bound body.

Harry bent to pick up his wand, understanding at last what he had to do. It was not the ending he had envisioned to this meeting, but it was the only solution he could live with. _Die with_, he thought bitterly. _Professor Dumbledore, why didn't you tell me?_ Harry raised his wand to the dueling salute. "I know I have to die," he said numbly, "but I can't let you kill me without a fight."

"Harry, no!" said Ginny, clutching at his arm, as he tried to push her out of the way.

"Fool!" snapped Snape. "Do you think that if the Horcrux inhabited your body, you could resist anything the Dark Lord ordered you to do?"

"The scar?" Hermione gasped.

Snape nodded curtly. But he seemed for the first time to hesitate. Then a look of terrible resolve hardened his face, and he strode toward an astonished Harry.

"No!" Ginny said. "I'll do it." Before anyone could react, she had placed her wand against Harry's forehead. "_Sectumsempra!_"

Harry, accustomed as he was to the usual pain in his scar, was stunned by the unexpected cessation of the familiar agony and its replacement with a new kind of pain, a pain that seemed strangely at odds with the shriek that rose through the air, a shriek that was, surprisingly, not coming from his own throat. Ginny's face, hovering before him, went white. Then fluid was running down his face, into his eyes, his mouth…it was his own blood, he realized.

"Ginny!" screamed Hermione, as the other girl crumpled to the ground with a moan.

Harry, struggling to wipe the blood from his eyes, dropped to his knees beside Ginny. "What's the matter?"

Snape was bending over her as well, unexpected, unwanted. His wand hovered over Ginny's right hand, from which her own wand had fallen, and he was murmuring low, sing-song words. Her hand was so white, Harry thought, it was almost grey.

"Voldemort," Hermione said urgently. Harry followed her gaze. It was not clear whether the Dark Lord had managed to work loose from his bonds on his own, or whether one of his Death Eaters had managed to free him in spite of Shacklebolt's efforts. But Shacklebolt had staggered backwards, and Voldemort had risen to his feet.

Harry felt sick, knowing that he had this one thing left to do. He tried to remember his desire for revenge for his parents' death. But he only felt cold and ill. It took the thought of Ginny, lying stricken before him, to force Harry to his feet.

"To me, Death Eaters!" Voldemort shouted, although the chaos around the clearing made it uncertain how many would hear him. He turned curious eyes upon Harry's bloodstained face, as if unsure whether to dare the boy to try to strike him down again. Harry raised his wand, the Killing Curse hovering like poison on his tongue, as he struggled to open his mouth.

But then the Dark Lord gasped, looking down at his own arms. "No, it cannot be!" He clutched at his chest, moaning. He began writhing, and the moan rose into a high-pitched scream. As the scream went on, far longer and far more human than the death-cry of a Horcrux, all eyes nearby, friend and foe, turned to see Voldemort's body blacken, as if consumed by invisible flames. When the scream ended, it seemed a dreadfully long time before the charred corpse toppled to the ground.

"Ginny!" Harry cried, coming back to her. The greyness in her hand had grown no worse, but Harry felt a stab of despair. "It was the Horcrux curse, wasn't it?" Then rage was surging through Harry again. "Why didn't _you_ do it?" he demanded of Snape, wiping again at the blood running from his forehead.

Snape raised his eyes, still murmuring his spell, and Harry felt as if the man had struck him. _I would have_, those dark orbs seemed to say.

"It was worth it," Ginny whispered. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "I don't understand how, but he's dead."

"The prophecy," Hermione said. "_His hatred will make his blood burn_. Your blood, Harry. He used it, thinking it would give him the power to kill you, but with your mother's protection _from him_ in it, it could never have been compatible with his soul. I think," she glanced uneasily in the direction of the fallen Dark Lord, "I think that once there were no more Horcruxes to protect him from death—"

"It destroyed him," Harry finished.

Hermione's eyes roved over the field of battle. There were still shouted spells echoing within the forest, but on this side of the clearing, only a few of their friends remained looking on. The ground was littered with bodies, dead or stunned. "Ron!" Hermione whimpered, catching sight of him sprawled just beyond Luna and Neville.

"Go on," Harry told her, his eyes finally welling up with tears, hoping against hope that she would find Ron still alive.

He looked down again at Ginny. "What can I do?" he asked, although the words tried to stick in his throat.

Snape reached into a pocket of his robe and held out a vial of emerald green liquid. He paused momentarily in his spell. "Bathe her hand with it, and make her drink the rest."

Harry followed these instructions, although he was beginning to feel light-headed himself.

"You look awful, Harry," Ginny said, grinning weakly, when she finished the potion.

"What's going to happen to her?" Harry demanded of Snape. "Dumbledore's hand…."

"She may be lucky," Snape said, a look of grim disgust on his face, his eyes strangely unfocused. "The curse was counteracted quickly. Also, she was possessed at one time by the Dark Lord, was she not? That may have given her some protection. Only time will tell."

"If she—" Harry said vehemently, feeling his anger surge again.

"You'll _what_, Potter?" Snape sneered, his eyes focusing sharply again on Harry's face. His wand flicked suddenly, and Harry felt a tingling in the wound on his forehead. When he put up his hand, the bleeding had stopped.

"I should remove myself now," Snape said, rising to his feet. "Not everyone will have seen what occurred, and some who did…may not feel that I acted as I should have."

Before Harry could answer, Snape had Apparated away.

When the fight had ended, and the toll had been taken, the numbers were not as grim as Harry had feared, but still far too high. Ron had only been stunned, after all, although he was disgusted at having missed what he called "the best part." The Sword of Gryffindor had apparently protected Neville from any curse damage, but he had not struck quickly enough to prevent Nagini from sinking her fangs into his arm. He had lost a tremendous amount of blood by the time he was taken to St. Mungo's, but fortunately the treatment that had been developed to cure Arthur two years before had saved him.

Not everyone had fared so well. Moody was found dead, still under his Invisibility Cloak, which had shimmered back into visibility when the body beneath it was no longer alive. Remus must have shed his cloak early on; his heart had been torn out from behind. Dedalus Diggle, Sturgis Podmore, and George Weasley had fallen. So had Molly Weasley.

Many of the bodies on the field were Death Eaters. Draco Malfoy was among them, looking very young and very surprised to be dead. A handful of the Dark Lord's soldiers had been stunned or were too injured to escape. But among the dead or captured, neither Bellatrix Lestrange nor Severus Snape had been found.

Harry was still loath to admit that he had been wrong about Snape. But with Ginny, Hermione, and most of all Shacklebolt, aware of the truth, he couldn't deny it when Rita Skeeter, for her story on "The Dark Lord's Fiery Demise," asked him about the rumors that Snape had turned against Voldemort. He could only grit his teeth when, true to form, Rita inflated Snape's role.

The man himself, however, did not reappear, although Scrimgeour had issued a proclamation of amnesty. Unexpectedly, one of the captured Death Eaters from the Nott family was also pardoned, with the explanation that he, too, had been a Ministry spy.

N.E.W.T.s were held on schedule, although Harry had sufficient difficulty focusing on his studies in the final term that he did poorer than he dared to hope. It was only Shacklebolt's intervention that got him admitted to Auror training along with Ron. Hermione was hired as a trainee assistant in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Neville began working for Heriburt's Magical Landscaping.

Ginny's hand seemed to grow no worse. Harry asked her to marry him. It was only at Arthur's insistence that she returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year.

As Harry's forehead healed, his scar took on the appearance of a misshapen X. The original lightning bolt faded to white, and the slash that had freed them from Voldemort, though still faintly purple, was going the same way. There was no pain now; it was just a scar.

**

* * *

A/N: **The way the Horcruxes work in this scene is based heavily on the Horcrux-analogue in Lloyd Alexander's _Taran Wanderer_ (as well as other mythological Horcrux-analogues). That is, a Horcrux doesn't just keep you from dying if your body is destroyed; it also makes your body darn near impossible to kill. (The backlash of the failed spell against baby Harry was obviously, in so many ways, a special case.)

Oddly enough, I only recently read the Prydain Chronicles, although logically I should have read them years ago. If I had read them before, I think I could have predicted a lot of things in Harry Potter that took me by surprise. And not just the idea of a Horcrux. The similarities between Snape in DH and Achren in _The High King_ are truly eerie!

The next section of the epilogue will, I hope, wind up the story for good. I've decided to follow the pattern of this chapter: a series of drabbles with a longer section at the end; in this case, the longer section will be the original epilogue that I conceived of way back when I was writing the main part of the story.

And no, it will not take as long between this chapter and the next as it did between the last chapter and this one. At least it better not!


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